Chapter 12 - What the hell?

Roman's POV

Professor Bennett has been talking for forty-seven minutes, and I haven't listened to a fucking word of it. Something about market structures, corporate expansion and shit I could probably recite from memory if somebody held a gun to my head. Usually, I don't mind this class. Today, every word sounds like background noise while I stare at an empty document and think about a black fucking rose. Four days ago, Ivy sat on my couch surrounded by photographs, completely oblivious to why one particular picture made every muscle in my body lock. Black petals against pale gravel. Innocent enough to her. Not to me. I asked where she found it. She told me near the edge of campus, shrugged and called it creepy-cute. Then looked at me like I'd lost my fucking mind when I asked exactly where.

Noah nudges my elbow.

I ignore him.

He does it again.

“What?”

“You've been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.”

“So?”

“You haven't written anything.”

“Maybe I'm thinking.”

“That would be a first.”

I turn my head and find him watching me like I'm full of shit. He's not wrong, which only makes him more annoying. My phone sits beside my hand. I've checked it six times since class started. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing. Not that I'm waiting for anything. Ivy doesn't owe me a message. We aren't friends. We're definitely not anything else. Four days ago, she delivered an envelope, invaded my room, stared shamelessly at my body and showed me her photography. Then I walked her home because apparently I've completely lost control of my fucking life. She spent the entire journey insulting me because I kept checking behind us. I called it situational awareness. She called me Batman with anger issues.

“Fuck off.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was actually going to ask why you've checked your phone seven times.”

“Six.”

There's a pause.

Fuck.

“Well, that's fucking embarrassing.” he laughs, then grunts when my elbow lands on a sensitive spot from his fight last night.

I should've kept my mouth shut. I know that immediately. I close one tab and open another purely to look occupied. The black rose bothered me enough that night to make Ivy suspicious, but I pulled my reaction back before she could interrogate me properly. She'd found it on gravel near the old east courtyard. Nobody handed it to her. No note. No message. Nothing suggesting it was anything more than a flower somebody dropped. So I let it go. Mostly. I kept the photograph, despite Ivy complaining about me stealing her work, and walked her back to her dorm. That was four days ago. I haven't seen her since. Not in the courtyard. Not outside the photography department. Not at the coffee place she visits most mornings.

I noticed on day two. Day one I was simply avoiding her like the plague. Petty and irrational maybe but I did not want her near me but by day two, I realised I hadn't heard her laugh or her annoying voice.

And that's the part I'm taking to my fucking grave.

By day two, I told myself she was avoiding me. Fair enough. She's been trying to do that since we met. By yesterday, I'd stopped believing it. Ivy is shit at avoiding people. She's too stubborn. If she saw me across campus, she'd deliberately walk directly past just to prove she wasn't intimidated by me and I would probably think it would work until I saw that little speck of fear in her eyes before it vanishes. Probably shoulder-check me for dramatic effect and throw in an insult for free. So yesterday afternoon, I did something I shouldn't have done. I accessed the university directory. Her student profile gave me a phone number, campus address and emergency contact information I had absolutely no legitimate reason to look at. I saved the number anyway. Then stared at it for ten fucking minutes because apparently this woman has reduced me to debating whether sending Where are you? makes me look insane.

It does.

I sent it anyway.

No reply.

Noah reaches for my phone.

I catch his wrist before he gets close.

“Try it.” I warn.

He pulls his hand back.

“Touchy.”

“I'm bored.”

“You're worried.”

“No.”

“You're terrible at lying.”

“I'm excellent at lying.”

“Not when you're pissed off.”

“I'm always pissed off.”

“Exactly.”

I don't bother responding. Something feels wrong. Not dangerous necessarily. I'm not jumping from a photograph of a rose to assuming somebody has dragged Ivy into some elaborate fucking conspiracy. The two things might not even be connected. Probably aren't. But she's been gone for four days, and after the photograph, I've become far too aware of her absence. Maybe she went home. Maybe she's buried under photography work. Maybe she finally achieved her dream of spending several consecutive days without seeing my face as she keeps recalling. All reasonable explanations. Except I asked her roommate yesterday. The conversation lasted approximately thirty seconds before the door slammed in my face.

Have you seen Ivy?

Yes.

Where is she?

Not your business.

Is she okay?

Ask her.

I almost respected it.

Almost.

By the time Bennett dismisses us, I'm already shoving my laptop into my bag. Students crowd towards the exits while I head in the opposite direction from my next class. Ivy's residence building sits on the other side of campus. Room 314. Third floor. Her student record told me that too. The access card currently sitting inside my wallet definitely didn't. I acquired that yesterday after a receptionist left it unattended for approximately fifteen seconds. Technically, stole might be the appropriate word. I prefer borrowed indefinitely. Noah notices immediately when I turn towards the residential courtyard instead of the library and calls my name from behind me.

“Roman.”

I keep walking.

“Roman.”

“What?”

“Whatever you're about to do is probably illegal.”

“That really narrows it down.”

Instead of trying to stop me like a normal friend would, he simply laughs and pats my shoulder. “See you later, psychopath.”

I lift one hand without turning around.

The rain starts halfway there. Not heavy, just that persistent Seattle drizzle that gets into everything and makes the entire university look even more miserable than usual. By the time I reach Ivy's building, my jacket is damp and my patience is non-existent. I'm only checking whether she's here. That's it. If she opens the door and tells me to go fuck myself, I'll leave. Happily, actually, because right now I'd give a lot to hear her say it. I take the stairs and reach the third floor within minutes. Room 314 sits halfway down the corridor. No sound comes from inside. I knock once. Wait. Then knock again.

“Ivy.”

Nothing.

I call the number I saved yesterday.

Somewhere behind the door, a phone starts vibrating.

So she's here.

I hang up.

“I know you're in there.”

Still nothing.

My stomach tightens.

I take the access card from my wallet.

I know this is crossing a line. Ivy will fucking murder me when she finds out how I got inside, and frankly, I'll deserve at least half of whatever she does. But she can scream at me later. I'd prefer screaming. Screaming means she's okay, it means I can stay the fuck away and not care. I swipe the card, wait for the green light and push the door open. The room is smaller than mine. Two beds. Two desks. Clothes over a chair. Photography books stacked beside a laptop. Her camera bag sits on the floor, and photographs cover the wall above one desk. Ivy's side. Obviously. Her roommate isn't here, but I don't need to search for the woman in question because there's a human-shaped lump beneath the comforter on the bed nearest the window.

For the first time today, every bit of anger leaves me.

“Ivy?”

Nothing.

I close the door and cross the room. She's curled tightly beneath the comforter, knees drawn towards her chest and dark hair spread messily across the pillow. Only half her face is visible. Her skin looks pale except for the slight flush across her cheeks. There's untouched water on the nightstand, tissues and a nearly full bottle of flu medicine. Relief hits when I realize she's sick rather than hurt, but it lasts approximately two seconds. Then I notice she's shivering. Her whole body trembles beneath the comforter even though she's wrapped in enough bedding to survive fucking Antarctica. I crouch beside the bed and press the back of my fingers carefully against her forehead.

She's burning up.

“Jesus Christ.”

Her eyes open slowly.

Usually, seeing me this close would earn me a glare, an insult or maybe an attempted murder. Instead, she blinks like she's deciding whether I'm real or some particularly unfortunate fever hallucination. Her eyes look glassy and exhausted, none of their usual fire waiting for me. I don't like it. This isn't Ivy. Ivy is supposed to tell me to get out before I've opened my mouth. She's supposed to call me Satan and threaten bodily harm. Instead, she stares for several seconds before recognition finally settles across her face.

“Roman?”

Her voice is barely there.

And that scares the absolute shit out of me.

“Yeah.”

She closes her eyes again.

That's it.

No what the fuck are you doing here?

No get out out my room Jackass.

No Satan. No Lucifer. No asshole.

Nothing.

I suddenly miss every fucking insult she's ever thrown at me.

“Hey. Open your eyes.”

She makes a quiet sound of protest.

“Ivy.”

“I'm tired.”

“I can see that.”

“Then stop talking.”

There she is. Barely but she's definitely there.

But I'll fucking take it.

I sit on the edge of the mattress and pick up the cold medicine, checking the label before looking towards the untouched water. She clearly hasn't been taking care of herself. Of course she hasn't. Too stubborn to ask anybody for help and apparently perfectly willing to lie here shivering until her body sorts itself out. Irritation rises, but there's nowhere useful to put it. I can't threaten a fever. Can't punch whatever virus has put her here. Can't scare it into leaving her alone. I hate problems I can't physically remove. Her roommate's bed is empty, and judging by the missing books, she hasn't returned yet. My attention goes back to Ivy, whose eyes are already closing again.

“How long have you been like this?”

“Don't know.”

“Useful.”

“Go away Roman.”

“No.”

One eye opens.

“You broke into my room?” she asks with a huff and I think I may actually smile.

Finally.

"Technically speaking, yes but I had a key card so no. The door opened when I put the card in."

“How?”

“Trade secret.”

“I'm too sick to murder you.”

“I know.”

“Tomorrow.”

“I'll put it in my calendar princess.”

She gives the smallest irritated breath before curling tighter beneath the comforter. That reaction shouldn't make me feel better. It does. I find a clean washcloth near the small sink, run it beneath cold water and return to the bed. I've never been particularly good at looking after people. They don't come to me for comfort. They come when they want a problem solved, somebody frightened or something handled without too many questions. I understand that version of myself. This one? Standing inside Ivy's dorm with a wet cloth in one hand while wondering when she last ate? No fucking clue. I place it carefully across her forehead. Her face tightens at the cold before gradually relaxing.

I should probably call her mom.

Or her roommate.

Somebody who knows what they're doing.

Instead, my first thought is that I don't want to leave her and I don't want anyone else looking after her the way I want to look after her.

That's new.

And fucking inconvenient.

“Have you eaten?”

A pause.

“Probably.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“Toast.”

“When?”

Another pause.

“Yesterday?”

“For fuck's sake, Ivy.”

She winces.

I immediately lower my voice.

“Sorry.”

Her eyes crack open.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“You apologized.”

“Fever's making you hallucinate.”

The corner of her mouth moves. Barely a smile, but I see it, and something inside my chest loosens. I stand before I spend too long examining that reaction and search the kitchenette. Her roommate has crackers, soup and enough instant noodles to feed a small country. I find crackers, refill her water and carry both back. She looks at them like I've presented her with an assignment. Tough shit. I sit beside her and hold out the glass until she finally pushes herself upright enough to take it.

“Drink.”

“No.”

“I wasn't asking.”

“Bossy.”

“You're sick.”

“Thank-you captain Asshole.”

“Better.”

She manages several mouthfuls before dropping back against the pillow. I place the glass within reach and pull the comforter higher around her shoulders. My fingers catch a strand of dark hair against her cheek, and without thinking, I brush it away. Ivy goes still. And so. Do. I.

Her eyes meet mine, and for once, there's no fight waiting there. No sarcasm. No challenge. Just exhaustion and something quieter that makes the room feel far too fucking small. I should move my hand immediately. Instead, my fingers hover beside her face for another second before I pull away. Four days ago, she was sitting on my couch insulting my sweatpants. Now she can barely keep her eyes open.

“You shouldn't be here.” she whispers.

“I know.”

“How did you know where I live?”

There's the question.

“School records.”

Her eyebrows pull together.

“You looked me up?”

“Yes.”

“You're such a creep.”

“Probably.”

“My number too?”

“Yes.”

“Theres some stalker vibes going on here.”

“Bit dramatic.”

Her eyes close.

“Still hate you.”

I stare at her.

“Good.”

Because good is safer than admitting how relieved I am to hear it.

Her breathing evens out a few minutes later. I should leave. I have another class in less than an hour, messages waiting on my phone and a photograph of a black rose sitting inside the top drawer of my desk that I still need answers about. Instead, I sit in the chair beside Ivy's bed and watch her sleep. Every few minutes, another shiver moves through her, and every time it does, something twists inside my chest. This isn't how this is supposed to work. Ivy is supposed to annoy me. Challenge me. Tell me I'm an arrogant prick and look at me like she's deciding which blunt object would hurt most. I'm supposed to enjoy provoking her because watching those brown eyes light up with fury has become one of the genuinely entertaining parts of my week.

I'm not supposed to worry when they don't.

My phone vibrates, pulling me out of my own head.

Noah: You still alive?

Roman: Unfortunately.

His reply arrives immediately.

Noah: Found what you were looking for?

I look at Ivy.

Roman: Yeah.

Three dots appear.

Noah: And?

I don't answer.

What the fuck would I say?

Found her sick.

Broke into her room.

Now sitting beside her bed like some fucking idiot because leaving feels wrong.

No.

I'd never hear the end of it.

I put my phone away just as she shifts beneath the comforter. Her face tightens before her eyes slowly open.

“You're still here.” she says a little surprised.

“Unfortunately.”

“You have class.”

“So do you.”

“I'm dying today.”

“You've got a fever, drama queen.”

“Same thing.”

I reach for the washcloth and wet it again before placing it across her forehead. This time she doesn't flinch or question me. She simply watches through heavy eyes while I straighten the edge away from her eyebrow. That's worse somehow. Trust from Ivy shouldn't feel dangerous. She should be suspicious of me. She should question everything I do because that's the version of me she understands. That's the version I understand. But right now she's letting me sit beside her bed, bring her water and touch her forehead without fighting me on every fucking thing, and I'm realizing I'd almost prefer another argument. Anger is easy. Whatever this quiet thing is between us isn't.

“Sleep.”

“You going?”

“No.”

“Why?”

There are a hundred answers I could give her. Because she's sick. Because nobody else is here. Because I'm making sure her fever doesn't get worse. Because after four days of not seeing her, of finding her curled beneath a comforter has done something unpleasant to my fucking chest. Because that black rose has been sitting in the back of my mind since the second I saw it, even though I'm refusing to turn coincidence into something bigger without proof. Or maybe because I've completely lost my mind. Instead, I settle deeper into the chair and choose the only answer that doesn't expose anything I don't understand myself.

“Because somebody needs to make sure you don't die just to inconvenience me.”

Her eyes drift closed.

“That's sweet.”

“I Take it back.”

A tiny smile touches her mouth.

“No.”

I stare at her until the smile disappears into sleep. Then I sit there. No touching. No provoking. No stupid games designed to make her angry enough to look at me. Just watching. Waiting. Making sure she's okay. I miss my next class without even pretending it was accidental. At some point, I pull the comforter higher around her shoulders. Later, I replace the cloth when it warms against her skin. Nothing about this feels like me, and yet leaving feels worse. Somewhere between checking her temperature again and realizing I haven't looked at the time in over an hour, an uncomfortable thought finally settles into place.

I didn't come here because Ivy had disappeared for four days.

I came because I noticed she had.

And apparently, somewhere along the way, noticing her has become something I can't fucking switch off.