Mistletoe Mishap

Chapter 22: Lines of Sight

The classroom was already half full when I slid into my seat.

Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, catching dust in the air, warming the back of my neck. I set my bag down, pulled out my notebook, and exhaled quietly — the kind of breath you don’t realize you’ve been holding until it’s gone.

Someone dropped into the chair beside me.

“Hi,” Sam said, like this was already a habit.

I turned, eyebrow lifting. “You move fast.”

He grinned. “I capitalize on momentum.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Only if you fight it.”

I snorted softly, flipping open my notebook. “You just met me.”

“And yet,” he said, leaning back slightly, hands folded behind his head, “here I am.”

I glanced at him. He wasn’t crowding me. Wasn’t trying to impress. Just… present. Comfortable in the shared space.

“You always sit here?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “But today felt like a sit-next-to-Ivy day.”

I paused, pen hovering. “You say things very directly.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been told that can be a lot.”

“I don’t mind,” I said after a beat. “It saves time.”

His smile softened — less playful, more real. “Exactly.”

From the corner of my eye, I felt it.

That familiar awareness.

I didn’t turn, but I knew Jasper was there — two rows over, by the aisle. I could picture him without looking: shoulders tense, jaw set, attention split between the front of the room and us.

Sam followed my gaze anyway.

“He’s watching again.”

“He does that,” I said lightly.

“Does it bother you?”

I considered the question. “Not today.”

Sam hummed. “Good.”

The teacher cleared her throat and began speaking, but Sam leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“So,” he whispered, “can I ask you something honest?”

“That depends,” I whispered back. “Is this a trap?”

“Only a conversational one.”

I nodded once. “Proceed.”

“You don’t hide,” he said. “But you don’t perform either. That’s rare. Why?”

I blinked, caught off guard — not by the question, but by how carefully it was asked.

“I used to hide,” I admitted quietly. “A lot.”

“And now?”

“I got tired.”

He studied my face like he was committing it to memory. “That checks out.”

“How?”

“Because tired people don’t fake calm,” he said. “They earn it.”

My throat tightened — just a little.

Before I could respond, the teacher asked a question. Sam straightened instantly, attention snapping forward like a switch had flipped. No slouching. No disrespect. Just competence.

That alone told me more than his words had.

A few minutes later, my pen slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor.

Before I could bend down, Sam had it.

“Reflexes,” he said, handing it back.

“Show-off.”

“Maybe,” he replied, lowering his voice again. “But you smiled.”

I hadn’t realized I had.

“You’re very observant,” I said.

“You make it easy,” he replied.

I felt Jasper’s stare sharpen.

Not jealous — not yet.

Assessing.

The class ended with chairs scraping and people gathering their things. Sam stood with me, unhurried.

“You heading straight to your next class?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Same direction?” He nodded toward the door.

“Looks like it.”

We walked out together, the hallway swelling with noise around us.

“So,” Sam said, “coffee later?”

I glanced up at him. “You don’t waste time.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I don’t rush either. Just asking.”

“When?”

“After your last class,” he said. “No pressure.”

I smiled — slow, deliberate. “I’ll think about it.”

“I’ll take that,” he said easily.

Jasper fell into step on my other side without a word.

The air shifted.

Sam noticed immediately. He slowed just a fraction, glancing between us.

“I’ll let you two catch up,” he said to me, not unkindly. “See you later, Ivy.”

“Later,” I said.

He walked off, hands in his pockets, completely unbothered.

Jasper watched him go, frown deepening.

“That was… a lot,” he said finally.

I looked at him. “Was it?”

“He likes you.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know.”

Jasper stopped walking.

I stopped too.

“You’re different today,” he said, quieter now. “You’re not checking yourself. Not asking permission.”

I met his gaze. “I’m still me.”

He searched my face, like he was trying to find the version of me he knew — the one who lingered, who waited.

“I don’t dislike it,” he said slowly.

“But?”

“But I don’t know where I fit.”

I softened — just enough. “You’re not being replaced, Jasper.”

He exhaled, tension easing but not disappearing. “Good.”

We resumed walking.

Behind us, through the crowd, Sam glanced back once — just long enough to see Jasper beside me.

His expression didn’t change.

But his eyes sharpened.