Crush Me Softly

4: Lunchroom Standoff

By the time we reached the final step of the lab, the classroom had settled into a kind of muted chaos — burners sizzling, pipettes clinking, students groaning over incorrect measurements. But at our table, everything felt unnaturally quiet.

Too quiet.

Roman wrote the last data point in the notebook while I double-checked the calculations. His handwriting was messier than mine, a little slanted, but oddly neat in its own way. I watched the way he held his pencil — not like a slacker, but like someone who cared more than he let on.

“Done,” he said, setting the pencil down. “You gonna grade me now?”

I glanced at him. “You want a grade?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Fake girlfriend privilege. I expect at least an A-minus.”

I rolled my eyes, but it didn’t come with the usual sharpness. “You might pass for effort. Barely.”

Roman’s grin twitched wider. “Effort? Kira, I showed up and wore goggles. That’s love.”

I snorted — actually snorted — and he grinned like he’d scored again.

“Stop looking so proud,” I said, trying not to smile back. “You’re not charming.”

“Liar.”

And unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong.

We started packing up our materials, carefully dumping out the leftover solution and wiping down the table. Roman reached across me to grab a rag, and his arm brushed against mine again — warm, solid. I held still for a second too long.

“I saw Noah staring at us earlier,” he said casually.

My stomach flipped. “So?”

“So nothing.” He glanced at me. “Just thought you should know it’s working.”

I turned to face him. “Right. Working.”

“Which was the plan,” he added, a little softer.

I nodded, more to myself than to him. “Of course.”

But even as I said it, the words tasted wrong.

We both reached for the same bottle of cleaner at the same time. Our fingers touched, and for a second, neither of us pulled away. It wasn’t a spark this time. It was something heavier. Slower.

Real.

My breath caught.

Roman noticed. His eyes searched mine, unreadable, and I felt my pulse thrum against my ribs.

The fake label didn’t feel like armor anymore. It felt like a lie I was scared to stop telling.

And just when I thought he might say something — anything — to shatter the silence between us, someone cleared their throat behind me.

“Whoa,” said a voice, way too loud. “Are we interrupting something?”

I turned to find Jasmine and two of her friends hovering nearby, their eyebrows raised, smirking like they’d just walked in on a CW drama.

“No,” I said quickly, stepping back.

Roman stepped back too, jaw tightening just slightly.

Jasmine leaned on the next table and looked between us. “You guys are cute or whatever. But don’t set the lab on fire with all that s****l tension.”

The girls laughed.

I felt my face burn. Roman said nothing, just wiped his hands on a towel and dropped it in the bin without looking at me.

Jasmine wandered off again, still giggling with her friends, and I tried not to die of embarrassment.

When I finally looked back at Roman, he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Sorry,” I said quietly. “That was…”

“Awkward?” he offered, still not meeting my eyes.

“Yeah.”

He picked up his notebook. “Guess we played it too well.”

Something in me flinched at the word played.

He turned to go, but I caught his sleeve — just lightly, barely enough to stop him.

“Roman,” I said.

He looked at me.

“I don’t know what this is anymore,” I whispered.

He held my gaze for a long moment, and something flickered behind his eyes — something raw and unreadable.

“Me neither.”

Then he walked out, notebook under one arm, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, black boots echoing against the tile.

I stood there alone at the lab table, surrounded by broken beakers and whispered rumors, and tried not to feel like the experiment that had gone wrong… wasn’t the one in front of me.

⸻

By fourth period, the whispers had started.

I could feel them following me — little gusts of half-said names and smothered giggles trailing down the hallway like shadows. It wasn’t loud, not yet. But it was enough.

Enough to make me check over my shoulder twice. Enough to make me hate how fast my heart jumped every time someone looked at me a beat too long.

By the time I stepped into the cafeteria, I was already bracing for it.

I scanned the room automatically — and there he was.

Roman.

Leaning back in his chair like he owned the table, arms crossed, dark hoodie half-zipped over a band tee, talking lazily with one of the skater guys from chemistry. He didn’t see me yet. Or maybe he did and just didn’t look.

I hovered awkwardly by the milk coolers for a full thirty seconds, pretending to pick between chocolate and plain, when in reality I was deciding whether or not I had the guts to sit next to him again.

That’s when I heard it.

“She’s really doing this, huh?”

The voice came from behind me — light, fake-sweet, and so painfully familiar.

Mya.

I didn’t turn around, but I felt her words slice straight through me.

“I mean, Roman? Really?” she continued, loud enough for at least three nearby tables to hear. “What is he, like… her emotional support goth?”

Laughter. Too sharp.

I clenched my fists and grabbed a chocolate milk like it was a weapon. Turned slowly. Met her eyes.

Mya stood surrounded by her usual orbit of perfection — lip gloss, French tips, and matching smirks. She raised an eyebrow at me, tilting her head like she was examining something pathetic.

“What?” she said, wide-eyed. “I thought it was a joke.”

“She’s clearly just trying to get back at Noah,” someone whispered behind her, not-so-quietly.

“Oh, totally,” another girl chimed in. “Revenge flirt.”

That one stung. Because it wasn’t wrong — or at least, it hadn’t been.

But now? Now I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. And I didn’t want them to know that either.

So I squared my shoulders and walked right past them, heels of my sneakers echoing against the tile.

Straight toward Roman.

He glanced up, surprised. And for one terrifying second, I thought he might make it worse — ignore me, wave me off, remind me this was all fake and temporary.

But then he shifted his backpack off the bench beside him without saying a word.

An invitation.

I sat.

He nudged the water bottle toward me like it was normal. Like we did this every day.

“You okay?” he said under his breath, just for me.

“They’re talking,” I whispered.

“They’ve always been talking.”

I didn’t answer. Just unwrapped my sandwich with shaking hands.

The noise around us kept building — quiet snickers, gasps, fake coughs followed by “Kira” and “Roman” in not-so-subtle tones.

And then, of course, Noah walked in.

Because fate loves a mess.

He paused mid-step when he saw us. Stared. His arm curled tighter around the new girl he’d been dragging around since last week — some tall sophomore with lip piercings and a blank expression. But his eyes were all on me.

Roman didn’t look. Just bit into his apple like he didn’t care. Like Noah wasn’t shooting daggers at us from across the room.

But I could feel the tension roll off him like heat.

Noah didn’t come over.

Mya did.

She walked right up to our table and folded her arms across her chest, her smile razor-thin.

“This is cute,” she said, voice dripping with fake sugar. “Is this, like, a protest couple? Or did you lose a bet?”

Roman finally looked up, chewing slowly. He didn’t say anything. Just gave her a once-over, unimpressed.

Mya turned her attention to me. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for underdog love stories. But, babe… Roman?”

I forced a smile that tasted like acid. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Oh, it doesn’t,” she said quickly, flicking her hair. “I just hate seeing girls embarrass themselves in public.”

Roman stood up.

Not dramatically — just enough to make his height impossible to ignore. He stepped slightly in front of me, not touching, not even looking at Mya. Just standing there.

Solid. Still. Quietly furious.

“Go sit down,” he said. Calm. Cold.

Mya blinked. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t repeat himself.

For a second, I thought she might explode. But instead, she scoffed, flipped her hair, and turned on her heel.

“Whatever,” she snapped. “Don’t say I didn’t try to help.”

She stomped off toward her usual table, and the buzzing gossip followed her like perfume.

Roman sat again, his eyes fixed on his tray like nothing happened.

I stared at him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.

“I know.”

“Why did you?”

He didn’t answer at first. Then, without looking at me, he said, “Because I hate when people talk to you like you’re not worth something.”

That shut me up.

Completely.

I looked down at my tray, trying to ignore how fast my heart was thudding. It wasn’t fake. Not that moment. Not that fire in his voice. Not the way he stood up like I meant something.

Which meant something else entirely.

This was getting dangerous.

⸻