Slow Burn

Chapter Six

Ethan is already here. Leaning against the edge of the long table, headphones around his neck, notebook open but untouched. He doesn’t look up when I sit, but I feel his presence anyway, like gravity decided to settle on my shoulders.

I pull my laptop out slowly, careful not to make it obvious I’m watching him. He glances at me, just a flicker, and smirks. Not a smile. That smirk is worse. It means he’s thinking something, and I have no idea what.

“Waiting for someone?” I ask finally, because silence is too heavy and I need to hear a human voice that isn’t the voice in my head.

He shrugs, leaning back. “Waiting for the world to get interesting. You?”

I tap at my keyboard, pretending I’m typing something important. “Same.” Lies. Everything is boring. Always boring. But with him here, maybe slightly less so.

He watches me type for a moment. “You always look like you’re planning a crime when you do that,” he says. “I should be scared, but I’m not.”

I glance up, eyebrows raised. “Planning a crime? Really?”

“Yes,” he says, voice quiet enough that I have to lean in slightly to hear. “The kind that involves me.”

I blink. Then I blink again. Something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten, and I don’t like that. I don’t like noticing it either. I look back at my laptop. Pretend. Always pretend.

Minutes pass. The library noise fades into nothing. I hear him breathe. I hear my own heartbeat.

Finally, he leans over my table, a little too close, and whispers, “You write like you’re daring someone to notice. Maybe me.”

My fingers freeze over the keys. “Maybe I am,” I say, and even I’m surprised by the slight tremor in my voice.

He smirks again, leaning back just enough to give me room to breathe but not enough to let me forget him. “Good,” he says. “I like a challenge.”

The rest of the afternoon stretches like taffy. Neither of us talks much, but the quiet feels electric. Every brush of his sleeve when he reaches for a pen, every time our eyes meet for just a fraction too long, it feels like the world is holding its breath. I hate that I notice. I hate that it makes my stomach twist.

I pretend to write, but I keep glancing at him. He catches me once, and the smirk creeps across his face again. “Stop staring,” he says softly.

“I’m not staring,” I lie.

“Sure,” he says, unimpressed.

I bite the inside of my cheek. It’s hard to stay calm when he’s here. When he’s always here. I wonder if he feels it too, this strange pull between us, or if I’m just imagining it. I hope I’m not imagining it.

When the bell finally rings, signaling the end of the day, everyone else shuffles out like a herd, leaving the library quiet again. He doesn’t move. He’s still standing, watching me pack my things with that same faint smirk, like he knows something I don’t.

“You going to leave, or are you planning to make me come get you?” he asks, voice low, teasing, and I feel my chest tighten even more.

“I can walk myself out,” I reply, standing.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” he says, standing as well, matching my pace. He walks beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. But my stomach twists anyway.

Outside, the sun is fading. Shadows stretch long across the schoolyard. We walk in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that speaks louder than words.

“I don’t get why you keep following me around,” I say finally, because I need to say something, anything, to distract from the tension in my chest.

“I don’t follow,” he says. “You just… let me.”

I don’t respond. I shouldn’t respond. But the corners of my lips twitch upward, almost involuntarily. He notices. Smirks again.

We reach the edge of the school grounds, and I hesitate. Part of me wants to turn back, to stay in the quiet corner of the library where everything is predictable. Part of me wants to see what happens if I don’t.

“You okay?” he asks. His voice is softer now, like he’s trying not to startle me.

“Yeah,” I say, though I’m not sure I am.

He doesn’t press. He walks beside me, close, but careful. And it’s strange. Comfortable. Dangerous, but comfortable.

When we reach the corner where our paths split, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. My chest feels tight, but in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

“You going to the bus?” he asks.

“No,” I lie.

“You walking home?”

“Yes,” I say. Truth this time.

He looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time since we left the library. His eyes are soft, curious, but there’s a spark in them that makes my stomach do that ridiculous flutter thing I hate noticing.

“You really are impossible,” he says finally, shaking his head.

I snort. “Yeah, and you’re still here, aren’t you?”

He smirks again, not answering.

We stand there, on the edge of the sidewalk, neither wanting to move first. The sun is gone now, leaving the world a little colder, a little quieter. The streetlights flicker on, washing everything in pale yellow.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says eventually, and it sounds like a promise. Or a warning. Or both.

I nod. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

And as I walk away, the way my chest aches is… familiar. It’s the first ache I’ve actually wanted in a long time.

By the time I reach home, my laptop is the only thing I want to touch. I collapse on my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything that happened today. His smirk. The way he leans too close. The way he notices me even when I’m pretending not to exist.

I blog it all, because it’s the only place I can admit I noticed without sounding like I’m losing my mind. I write about him like he’s a character I’ve invented, like he can’t exist in the same world as me. And then I reread what I wrote, and I notice the truth: I did notice.

And that scares me. But I can’t stop.

Later, I go to the kitchen for a drink. Mum is on her laptop. Dad is fiddling with the TV remote. And I just stand there for a moment, thinking about Ethan, about the library, about the strange heat that spreads across my chest whenever he’s near.

I grab a glass of water and retreat back to my room, closing the door behind me. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my laptop like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

Then I type.

I type about the library. I type about the quiet. I type about the way he smirked, the way he leaned too close, the way he made my chest ache in a way I can’t explain. I type about how he makes me feel like the world is more than just noise and people pretending to care.

And for the first time in a long time, I think maybe I want to feel.

Night falls, and I lie on my bed, laptop resting on my stomach. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I’m not writing anymore. I’m thinking, imagining, replaying every look, every word, every slight brush of his hand against mine when we passed in the library.

I try to analyze it, break it down, make sense of it, but it’s impossible. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe I’m supposed to feel it and not understand it.

Ethan. The thought of him lingers, like smoke that won’t dissipate, like a song stuck in my head. And I realize, reluctantly, terrifyingly, that I like it. I like that I can’t predict him. I like that he makes my chest ache. I like that he exists.