He Came When I Called

I made a small sound and pressed my hand to my stomach.

Owen turned immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing serious.” I let my smile fade at the edges. “I think I waited too long to eat.”

His eyes dropped to my hand.

“Does it hurt?”

“A little. But you should talk to Chloe. I can wait.”

“You shouldn’t wait if you’re in pain.”

He took my bag without asking and looked at her.

“I’m sorry. Can we talk another time?”

She opened her mouth, then glanced at my hand again.

“Sure. Of course.”

“Thanks,” he said, already guiding me toward the dining hall.

I looked back once.

Chloe was still standing beside the court.

I gave her an apologetic smile. I had excellent manners when things were going my way.

Owen slowed his stride to match mine.

“Do you need to sit down?”

“I’ll survive the walk.”

“Tell me if it gets worse.”

“You worry too much.”

“You almost fell off a ladder this morning.”

“And you caught me. It was a very successful morning.”

He shook his head, but his mouth moved at one corner.

At dinner, he inspected the available food as though selecting supplies for a rescue operation. He came back with soup, a sandwich, and water without ice.

“I was going to get fries,” I said.

“You can steal mine if your stomach feels better.”

He set his own tray down opposite me. There were fries on it.

I looked at him over my spoon.

“You planned ahead.”

“You always steal them.”

He said it so matter-of-factly that warmth spread through my chest before I could make a joke.

We had lived together for six weeks. He knew how I took my coffee, which dining hall desserts I liked, and that I complained about being cold while refusing to wear sensible clothes.

He did not appear to understand what knowing all those things did to me.

I took one of his fries.

“My stomach is recovering beautifully.”

He pushed the little paper boat closer.

Back at the suite, Marcus was sprawled across our common-room couch while Ben stood in the kitchenette, eating cereal from a mug.

“You missed the entertainment,” Marcus announced.

“What entertainment?” I asked.

“Some guy got caught stealing clothes from the laundry room in North Hall. Campus security hauled him out this afternoon.”

Ben grimaced. “Apparently he’d been doing it for weeks.”

“That’s disgusting,” Owen said.

He was setting my bag beside my desk. His voice sounded ordinary.

His hand had stopped moving.

“Wait.” Ben pointed his spoon at me. “Haven’t you been losing stuff?”

“Everyone loses socks.”

“You said underwear.”

Owen put my bag down very carefully.

I leaned against the doorframe.

“Maybe that explains it.”

Marcus made a face. “I’d throw everything out.”

“That seems wasteful.”

“Some stranger has been touching it.”

“You don’t know that.”

Owen looked at me.

I looked back.

There was something almost painful in his expression, a mixture of alarm and hope that I would stop talking.

I decided he had suffered enough for one evening.

“Anyway, I have plenty,” I said. “And if someone liked it that much, he clearly has excellent taste.”

Marcus laughed. Ben told me I was impossible.

Owen went into our bedroom.

I followed a minute later.

His desk lamp was on. He stood beside his wardrobe with a folded shirt in his hands, looking as though he had forgotten why he was holding it.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“You went quiet.”

“I’m tired.”

“Then you should sleep.”

He nodded too quickly.

I could have confronted him. Asked where the missing things were. Watched him turn scarlet and apologize until neither of us knew what to do next.

But I had seen one of my dark blue pairs tucked beneath a sweatshirt in his open drawer the previous week. I knew enough.

What interested me was how long he intended to keep looking at me as though wanting something was a crime.

I had wanted him since move-in day.

He had arrived carrying two bags, one battered duffel and one laundry sack, and immediately offered to help with my boxes. When I told him which bed I wanted, he had said, “Sure,” and started assembling the ladder before I could find the instructions.

He was quiet. Handsome. Good at things that required strength and patience. He also looked genuinely surprised when I thanked him.

I had watched him lift my suitcase onto a shelf and decided I liked university after all.

At first, I had assumed he was straight. He never talked about dating anybody. When Marcus made jokes, Owen laughed and changed the subject.

Then the staring had started.

Then the blushing.

Now we were apparently at the laundry stage.

I did not intend to spend the entire semester pretending to miss the obvious.

I took my shower things and pulled my shirt over my head.

Owen turned toward the window.

The reflection in the dark glass was unhelpfully clear.

I caught his eyes in it.

He looked down.

Poor thing.

When I returned from the bathroom, Marcus had disappeared into his room, Ben was arguing with a game through his headset, and Owen sat at his desk with a textbook open.

The page had not changed when I came back from brushing my teeth ten minutes later.

I climbed into bed.

For a while, there was only the scratch of his pen and Ben’s muffled complaints through the wall.

Then the skin between my shoulder blades began to itch.

I shifted against my pillow.

The itch got worse.

The communal dryers had done something unpleasant to my sheets. Or the new detergent had. My skin had always been inconveniently particular.

I reached over my shoulder and scratched.

“You’ll make it worse,” Owen said.

I peered over the edge of the mattress.

He was looking up at me, the textbook abandoned.

“It already is worse.”

“Is it a rash?”

“I can’t see my own back.”

“I have the cream the campus nurse gave me when I reacted to the athletic tape. It might help.”

He found the tube, checked the label, and held it up.

I looked at the cream.

Then at the ladder.

An idea began to improve my evening.