Chapter 2
1101 Words
By the second week of the semester, Ivy McCall had one goal: survive cohabiting with Asher Reid without committing a felony.
The apartment was quiet when she got up that morning.
For a second, she thought maybe he’d moved out.
Then she saw the guitar on the couch, an empty cereal bowl on the coffee table, and a note stuck to the fridge in his slanted handwriting:
“Didn’t drink your oat milk. You’re welcome. —A.”
It should have been simple, but the tiny smiley face he’d drawn next to his initials threw her off balance. Ivy wasn’t used to being teased by people who looked like they’d stepped out of a college magazine ad.
She poured her coffee, opened her laptop, and tried to pretend she didn’t notice that the couch still smelled faintly like his cologne—something clean and a little reckless, like cedar and late nights.
⸻
When Asher got back from his morning run, he found her at the kitchen table surrounded by books and highlighters.
“Do you ever take a break?” he asked, leaning against the counter and gulping water straight from the bottle.
“I schedule them,” Ivy replied, eyes on her laptop.
“Of course you do.” He grinned. “You schedule breathing too?”
She gave him a sharp look, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“I know I’m funny.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said, walking past her to grab a banana, “you keep talking to me.”
“Only because you keep existing in my space.”
“Correction,” he said, peeling the banana and pointing at the fridge. “Our space.”
Her eyes followed the magnet board on the fridge. It held her neatly written House Rules list.
He’d added something under it since last night—Rule #6, scribbled in bold black marker:
Chill. It’s not that deep.
Ivy sighed. “You’re impossible.”
“Thank you,” Asher said, taking a bite and wandering toward the balcony like a man pleased with himself.
⸻
That night, their schedules collided again.
Ivy sat cross-legged on the living-room floor, surrounded by flashcards and notebooks. Asher was sprawled across the couch, tuning his guitar.
The strumming broke her concentration every thirty seconds.
She tried ignoring it. Then she tried humming loudly. Finally, she snapped.
“Do you have to do that right now?”
He looked up, surprised. “Do what?”
“That!” She pointed at the guitar. “You’re vibrating the air, Asher!”
He laughed. “Pretty sure that’s the point of sound.”
“Some of us are trying to study!”
He tilted his head. “You ever think maybe you’d remember more if you relaxed?”
“I am relaxed.”
He set his guitar aside and walked over, crouching beside her. “You’re vibrating more than the strings, McCall.”
She opened her mouth to retort but forgot what to say. He was too close—his voice low, teasing, but not mean. His eyes were warm brown under the lamplight, and for a second she forgot that she was supposed to hate him.
Then he picked up one of her flashcards. “Freud?”
“Don’t touch those.”
“Do you memorize this stuff or just torture yourself with it?”
She snatched the card back. “Some of us want a degree that doesn’t depend on good hair and charm.”
He smiled faintly. “You think that’s all I’ve got?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did.” He stood up, brushing his hands on his jeans. “You just haven’t decided if you’re impressed or jealous.”
She stared at him, speechless, as he grabbed his guitar and disappeared into his room, humming something soft under his breath.
⸻
On Wednesday, things shifted.
Their shared elective—Introduction to Creative Expression—announced a semester project.
“Partners will submit a joint presentation,” the professor said. “Names are on the board.”
Ivy scanned the list.
Her heart sank.
McCall & Reid.
Asher leaned over her shoulder, voice low enough for only her to hear.
“Well, look at that. Fate’s got a sense of humor.”
She glared. “Don’t talk to me.”
“Bit late for that. We’re partners.”
“I’ll do the writing,” she said quickly. “You can… do whatever it is you do.”
“Charm the audience? Sure thing.”
She gave him a sharp look, but he just smiled. “Relax, Princess. I’ll pull my weight.”
He said it lightly, but for the rest of the class she couldn’t concentrate. The way he said Princess wasn’t mocking anymore. It was softer, almost careful.
⸻
That evening, Ivy sat at her desk trying to outline their project when she heard his music start again—gentle this time, like he was trying not to disturb her. She listened for a minute, then closed her laptop and crossed the hall.
She knocked.
He looked up from his guitar, surprised. “Did the fridge break, or are you here to yell at me again?”
“I’m here to talk about our project,” she said, arms folded. “You free tomorrow?”
He grinned. “I’m free now.”
She hesitated. His room was a mess—clothes, lyrics scribbled on notebook pages, a half-eaten sandwich on his desk—but somehow it felt alive, like him.
They spent the next hour trading ideas. He was more thoughtful than she expected—funny, yes, but also surprisingly insightful. Somewhere between the jokes and brainstorming, Ivy forgot she was supposed to be annoyed.
When she finally stood to leave, Asher leaned back in his chair, eyes on her. “You know, you’re not that bad when you’re not glaring at me.”
She rolled her eyes. “And you’re tolerable when you’re not talking.”
“Progress,” he said, smiling.
She left his room with her heart doing an unfamiliar fluttering that had nothing to do with caffeine or stress.
⸻
That night, Ivy found a new note on the fridge.
No doodles this time—just five words written in Asher’s messy scrawl:
Thanks for not hating me.
She stared at it for a long moment, her lips twitching into an unwilling smile.
Then she grabbed a sticky note and replied:
Don’t make me regret it.
- Writer
