Crush Me Softly

3: Chemistry Experiment

“Careful, that’s hydrochloric acid, not lemonade.”

Roman’s voice was low and laced with amusement as he leaned over the lab table, watching me like I was one breath away from destroying the entire science wing.

“I know that,” I muttered, holding the beaker steady with both hands. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Didn’t say you were.” He paused. “Just don’t want to walk out of here blind.”

I shot him a glare from behind my safety goggles. “Then maybe stop breathing down my neck while I’m trying to pour.”

He smirked but didn’t back off. Typical Roman — always hovering, always sarcastic, and always way too close for comfort.

It was our second day of partnering up for the chemistry lab assignment, and Mrs. Alcott had made it clear we’d be stuck together until the end of the unit. Something about her believing that “opposites build the strongest reactions.” I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the chemicals or us.

Roman reached for the flask, brushing my hand as he did. I flinched instinctively, the touch too light to be intentional — but not light enough to ignore.

“Relax,” he said, his fingers still on the glass. “You’re overthinking it.”

“Says the guy who added the sodium too early yesterday.”

“Debatable,” he replied coolly. “You just didn’t stir fast enough.”

I rolled my eyes and stirred the mixture now, slowly, carefully — just how the lab instructions outlined. Roman watched me with that infuriating half-smile, like he knew exactly how much he got under my skin and took genuine pleasure in it.

We worked in silence for a few moments. The only sounds were the bubbling of our reaction and the dull hum of the overhead lights. Around us, other students laughed or whispered or tapped on glassware, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat ticking like a metronome.

“Okay,” I said, glancing at the paper. “Next step is the titration.”

Roman nodded and handed me the pipette. “You trust me to handle the glassware this time?”

“Not even slightly.”

He chuckled. “Fair.”

I held the pipette with shaking fingers, not because I was nervous about the experiment — but because I could feel Roman watching me again. His eyes weren’t mocking this time. They were… thoughtful. Quiet.

I didn’t like it.

Or maybe I liked it too much.

“Why are you staring?” I asked without looking up.

“You chew your lip when you concentrate.”

I stopped mid-motion and blinked at him.

“What?”

He shrugged. “It’s just a thing I noticed.”

“I wasn’t—” I paused. Okay, maybe I had been doing that. But still.

“You’re observant all of a sudden?” I asked, half-joking, half-defensive.

Roman leaned against the edge of the table, the edge of his mouth curling. “Only when I’m bored.”

I gave him a look. “And yet somehow I’m the one doing all the work.”

“You like being in control,” he said. “Don’t act like you don’t.”

That shouldn’t have made my face flush. It shouldn’t have sent a weird flutter down my spine. But it did.

I quickly turned back to the experiment. “Just finish writing the data down, goth boy.”

“You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

We settled into a rhythm after that — me measuring, him recording. Every so often our hands bumped, and neither of us said anything. At one point, he reached around me to grab the distilled water bottle, and the sleeve of his hoodie brushed against my arm.

I didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

And that was the problem.

This whole fake relationship thing was spiraling faster than I’d expected. At first it was fun — dramatic stares in the hallway, whispered rumors, Noah’s smug face turning red whenever he saw us together. But now? Now it was starting to feel less like a performance and more like… something else.

Something dangerous.

Something real.

I glanced at Roman again. His fringe fell across his eyes, but I could still see the way he focused on the numbers he was writing, the slight furrow in his brow, the way his fingers tapped the pencil when he paused to think.

This version of him — calm, quiet, and completely unaware I was watching — felt like a different person than the one who flirted with girls in the hallways or rolled his eyes in class.

And I hated that I wanted to know this version better.

————

“Okay, now we’re supposed to calculate the pH and compare it to our hypothesis,” I said, glancing down at the paper again. “Which you still haven’t written.”

Roman tapped the notebook with the end of his pencil. “Because I was too busy saving your experiment from spontaneous combustion.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you seriously trying to take credit for my precision?”

He gave me a smug little grin. “Look, teamwork makes the dream work, Kira. Don’t be stingy.”

I snorted. “This dream ends with me finishing the write-up while you pretend you knew what was happening the whole time.”

He leaned in a little closer. “You say that like it’s not already working.”

Ugh.

But the worst part? I laughed. Just a little. Just enough that his eyes crinkled, like he’d won something.

Roman was trouble in the form of black hoodies and sharp smiles.

And I was starting to lose the battle against whatever was happening inside me.

“Here,” he said suddenly, taking the calculator from my side of the table. Our fingers brushed again — more deliberate this time, slower — and I didn’t pull away.

We both noticed it.

Roman didn’t make a joke. I didn’t roll my eyes. The moment hung there, suspended like the weightless drop before something falls.

I looked away first.

“I’m still mad at you, you know,” I said, voice quieter than I meant.

“I know.”

“Then stop acting like everything’s fine.”

He paused, hand tightening slightly around the calculator. “I’m not acting. I just… don’t know what to say.”

“Try the truth for once.”

Roman looked at me then — really looked at me — and for once, he didn’t wear his usual mask of indifference. He looked conflicted. A little lost.

“I don’t flirt with girls to hurt you,” he said slowly. “Sometimes I just… do things without thinking.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“I didn’t know it would bother you.”

I scoffed, turning away. “It shouldn’t have. But it did.”

Roman was quiet.

“I don’t get you,” I whispered. “One minute, you’re messing around with everyone like none of this matters. The next, you’re… here. Acting like it does.”

His voice was lower now. “What if I’m just figuring that out?”

The beaker beside us hissed quietly — some slow reaction still unfolding even though we’d stopped paying attention to it.

“I’m supposed to be using you, remember?” I said, forcing a bitter smile. “You’re the rebound. The revenge. That was the whole point.”

Roman tilted his head, studying me. “So what happens if it stops feeling fake?”

The question dropped between us like a match on dry leaves.

I didn’t have an answer.

We were still staring at each other when Mrs. Alcott passed by, glancing down at our table. “Careful, lovebirds. That acid isn’t going to neutralize itself.”

I jumped a little, blinking like I’d been caught doing something wrong. Roman just smirked and saluted her with a pencil.

“I— We’re not—” I stammered.

Roman didn’t say a word. He just turned back to the experiment, calm and collected as ever.

But under the table, his knee brushed mine.

And this time… he didn’t move away.

Neither did I.