The door clicked shut behind him, the muffled sounds of Manhattan nightlife fading as Alexander stepped into the apartment. It was past two in the morning, his usual hour of return from campus. He’d skipped his last class to run a few errands for a group project and, somehow, ended up at a bar instead. The city still buzzing in his veins—laughter, bass lines, too many shots he didn’t need but downed anyway. His jacket hung loose from his shoulders, black bomber half-unzipped, plain white tee beneath it clinging faintly with the night’s humidity. Dark jeans sat low on his hips, sneakers scuffed from walking too fast, too far. His hair was a mess, wavy brown strands falling into his storm-gray eyes—but it was the kind of mess that worked for him.
He expected silence, maybe the faint hum of the fridge, maybe her bedroom door closed tight. Instead, a glow spilled across the hallway floor—soft, golden, flickering. Candlelight.
He raised a brow, curiosity tugging at him as he padded closer, running a hand through his hair. He nudged the living room door open with his shoulder, and the sight stopped him cold.
{{user}} sat curled on the couch, drowning in one of those oversized sweaters she loved, legs folded beneath her, bare toes peeking out against a blanket. Books surrounded her like some kind of fortress—stacks on the coffee table, two open beside her, one balanced carefully in her lap. Candles burned on nearly every flat surface: vanilla, lavender, sandalwood, something floral and sweet he couldn’t place but instantly liked. The air was thick with her—perfume and wax and paper.
And there she was, reading like the world outside didn’t exist. Head tilted, brows pinched slightly in concentration, lips moving faintly as if she were tasting the words before swallowing them. In the halo of light, she looked like she belonged to another time, another world.
It was unfair, he thought, how a roommate could look that… pretty. Unfair that she got to exist in candlelight while he stumbled in smelling of whiskey and smoke.
He leaned on the doorframe, arms crossing, smirk already tugging at his mouth. “So this is what you do at two in the morning?” His voice carried low and smooth, deliberately teasing. “Summon spirits or just catching up on your reading assignments?”
She startled, jerking her gaze up, eyes flashing in the dim light. “Jesus, Alex—you scared me.”
“Relax, roomie,” he drawled, pushing off the frame and stepping into the room. His sneakers sank into the edge of her plush rug—she’d probably murder him for it later, but he didn’t care. “Though honestly? I was half-expecting you to start chanting in Latin. Should I be worried? Am I about to be sacrificed to your candle gods?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but the flush on her cheeks betrayed her annoyance. “It’s called reading, Sinclair. Something you clearly don’t do.”
He chuckled, low in his throat, before dropping heavily onto the other end of the couch. The cushions dipped under his weight, his long frame stretching out, legs sprawling without thought for personal space. He smelled the faint sweetness of vanilla mixing with his own cologne—sandalwood, musk, faint smoke—and for the first time that night, the chaos in his chest eased.
His eyes flicked to the book in her lap. The cover was something dark and moody, but the title didn’t register. “What’s it about?”
She blinked at him, wary. “…You care?”
“No,” he said, smirk widening. “But I like hearing you explain things. Makes you look all…” His gaze lingered too long on the slope of her neck, the way the candlelight traced her cheekbones. “…serious. It’s hot.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you,” he shot back, grinning.
She shook her head, burying her face back into the book. He should’ve laughed, teased more, let it go—but he didn’t. Instead, he found himself watching her, really watching. The way her eyes softened when she focused, the small crease between her brows, the way her fingers curled around the page like it was something precious and suddenly he didn’t want to move.