My Stalker's Thermos

I pressed a hand to my chest and gasped for air. My lungs felt as though they were filled with icy wind, each breath burning with pain.

The sensation of dying in my first two lives still clung to my bones. The moldy stench of that mud-brick house, the rusty tang of the rented room, the shrill screech of brakes in the instant before the crash. The memories churned together until my temples throbbed.

I raised my eyes again and found myself staring at the familiar library study area.

A warm yellow desk lamp glowed nearby beside a towering stack of grad school study materials.

Then a hand with prominent knuckles gently placed a thermos printed with a little bear cub on the corner of my desk.

It was Bryce Jackson. He looked the same as always, gentle and refined. His white shirt was neatly buttoned at the collar, and his eyes held the same warm, familiar smile he had worn every time he handed me water in my first two lives.

My blood ran cold.

No. I would not make the same mistake again.

In my first life, I had let my guard down and accepted his confession. He had coaxed me into moving back to his family's home in the mountains. I spent the rest of my life trapped on a few acres of land and died of illness on a mud-brick bed before I turned thirty.

In my second life, I hid from him for a week.

The moment I returned to the study room, he knocked me unconscious and dragged me away. He kept me locked up for three years before I finally managed to escape, only to die a horrible death beneath the wheels of a car.

In this third life, I would not let him anywhere near me. Not even a little.

He leaned down, about to speak.

Heat rushed to my head. I whipped around and grabbed the arm of the guy sitting next to me.

He wore black headphones, and his fingers flew across his phone screen. Game sound effects leaked from his headphones in bursts of static, but he did not even lift his head.

I nearly shouted, "Boyfriend! Let's go grab something to eat!"

The instant the words left my mouth, the rustle of turning pages at the surrounding tables abruptly stopped.

The entire room fell silent for three long seconds.

My hand trembled around his arm. I stared at the back of his head and prayed like crazy.

His fingers paused.

He slowly pulled off his headphones and turned toward me.

He had handsome features, though his eyes still held a hazy, half-asleep look.

He glanced at me, then at my hand gripping his arm, and frowned. "What do you mean?"

My face instantly burned.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bryce's gaze turn cold as he stared at our joined arms.

There was no turning back now.

I steeled myself and whispered quickly, "Do me a favor. I'll owe you one."

He raised an eyebrow and let out a quiet "Oh."

To my surprise, he did not expose me. He slipped his headphones back on, lowered his gaze, and resumed tapping at his screen. "Fine, fine, fine. Let me finish this team fight."

I let out half the breath I had been holding.

But when I looked up, I found students at several nearby tables staring our way, their eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Some covered their mouths and whispered. Others pulled out their phones and secretly began typing.

I knew it. This was bad.

The grad exam study room was not that big. News would spread faster than the wind.

…

At lunch, I sat through a meal in the cafeteria that felt like torture.

The gamer and I did not exchange another word. He kept his head down and played games the entire time, while I picked distractedly at my pasta.

When I returned to the study room that afternoon, I could practically feel everyone's eyes glued to me.

I headed toward my seat, only to stop short.

Bryce was still sitting across from me.

But the thermos that should have been on my desk was now clutched in his hand.

He looked up at me. His face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes were noticeably colder than they had been that morning.