Slow Burn

Chapter Seven

I drag my bag across the floor and claim a spot near the corner. Ethan is already there. Of course he is. He’s been making this library his second home, though he pretends he isn’t paying attention to anyone. He’s leaning back in his chair, one leg over the other, scrolling through something on his phone with a detached air that makes me both annoyed and vaguely impressed. I drop into the chair opposite him.

“Hey,” I say.

He doesn’t look up immediately. Just hums in acknowledgment. I hate it when he does that. It makes me want to poke him until he finally meets my eyes, though I’d never admit it.

“You’re actually early,” he says, finally, eyes flicking up like he just remembered I exist.

“I was avoiding people,” I mutter, shrugging.

He smirks. “Figured. You’re too emotionally unavailable for most of this place anyway.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Emotional. Unavailable. Charming as always, Ethan.”

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, and the faintest crease appears between his brows. “I like it when you’re sarcastic. Less sad.”

I blink at him. Less sad. I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel flattered or offended. “Wow,” I whisper. “You know just what to say.”

Natalie appears behind him suddenly, waving her phone. “Ashley! Lila! Becky! You won’t believe—”

I immediately zone out. Her voice is that bright, intrusive kind that makes my head hurt, though I like her anyway. Lila groans, Becky rolls her eyes, and Ethan just keeps his gaze on me like nothing has changed.

“You know,” he says softly, “I think you do that on purpose. Ignore everything except what you want to notice.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because he’s right, obviously. I glance down at my laptop, pretending to type something, but I’m just staring at the blank screen, thinking about how his words always manage to stick to the parts of me I’d rather ignore.

“You’re going to make someone fall in love with you one day,” he mutters, almost to himself.

I snort. “Not likely. I’m too busy hating the world.”

“You hate the world,” he corrects gently. “I don’t think you hate the world, Ashley. I think you hate not knowing where you fit.”

I freeze. He doesn’t say it mockingly. He doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. It’s quiet, like a whisper that crawls under my skin. I want to deny it. I want to throw a pencil at him. Instead, I just look away.

Lila shuffles papers behind us, murmuring about something no one cares about, and Becky suddenly leans over. “Ashley! Stop spacing out! We’re making a plan for the charity bake sale.”

I barely hear her. The words pass through my brain like a breeze. I try to care. I really do. But I don’t.

Ethan watches me still, his expression unreadable. And for some reason, that makes me think too much.

⸻

I spend the next hour half-listening to Natalie and the others bicker about icing and cupcake flavors, while Ethan quietly reads something on his laptop. Every now and then, he looks up, catching me staring at nothing, and I almost pretend I’m paying attention to my own screen. Almost.

Then, of course, he decides to break the silence.

“Do you ever wonder,” he asks softly, “if anyone else notices the little things about people?”

“What kind of little things?” I reply, keeping my voice level, though my heart lurches like it’s trying to escape my chest.

“The way someone always tucks their hair behind their ear when they’re nervous, or the way they smile at a sentence that doesn’t even make sense. Stuff that means nothing to anyone else but means something to you.”

I don’t answer immediately. I shouldn’t answer. But I do. “Maybe. I guess most people aren’t worth noticing anyway.”

He laughs. It’s low, quiet, but it makes the library feel warmer. “Noted. And yet here you are, noticing me.”

I want to roll my eyes, but I don’t. I can’t.

Later, the group disbands for lunch. Natalie insists on dragging me to the cafeteria, Lila complains about the lines, Becky is muttering something about glitter on cupcakes, and Ethan follows silently, like he’s part of this chaos and yet perfectly separate from it.

I end up sitting across from him at the long cafeteria table. He doesn’t speak immediately, just watches me unwrap a granola bar like it’s some fascinating puzzle.

“You always eat like that,” he observes finally. “Quietly, like the world doesn’t exist.”

“That’s because it doesn’t,” I reply, crunching the bar in a way that sounds louder than intended.

“You think the world doesn’t exist,” he says. “You’re wrong. It does. But most of it’s boring. You just notice the interesting parts.”

I stare at him. He’s saying things that make my brain hurt in the best possible way. I don’t know if I should be annoyed or impressed.

“Do you notice interesting parts about people too?” I ask.

“Only some,” he admits. “Mostly the ones who notice the same things I do.”

I feel a little heat rise in my chest. It’s a weird feeling. One I don’t know what to do with. I look down at my tray and chew silently, hoping he doesn’t notice.

Of course, he does. Ethan always notices.

Back in the library, the afternoon drags on. I’m typing furiously on my laptop, pretending to work on homework, but really I’m thinking about him. About the way he smirked when he said something small, about the quiet corners of his expression that I keep trying to read.

Natalie keeps nudging me, whispering about drama in the halls, and Lila keeps asking if I want help with a math problem, but I don’t care. I’m too busy stealing glances at Ethan across the room. He’s pretending not to notice, which makes me think he’s noticing all the more.

Eventually, he walks over, placing a sticky note on my laptop. “You missed a meeting,” he says flatly.

I glance at it. It’s a tiny yellow square, scribbled with something barely legible: Library?

“Was that a question?” I ask.

“Depends if you want to answer,” he says, smiling just slightly. The smallest twitch of a smile, enough to make my stomach lurch.

I write yes on the note, and he smirks, walking back to his desk. I watch him go, and for some reason, the library feels too small, like it’s just the two of us and the rest of the world doesn’t matter.

I don’t know why I feel that way. I’m supposed to hate the world. I’m supposed to hate feelings. And yet here I am, typing like a fool, staring at a blank page, thinking about someone who barely even talks to me half the time.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the interesting parts of people are dangerous.

By the time the library closes, I’ve barely written a word of homework. Instead, I’ve written three blog posts about him. Small, fleeting thoughts. A smirk. A glance. A word.

Ethan comes up beside me as I gather my bag. “You think too much,” he says.

“I know,” I reply. “It’s a flaw.”

“Maybe it’s what makes you… noticeable,” he says, turning to leave, but not before looking back. “Don’t forget the sticky note.”

I blink at the yellow square clutched in my hand.