Chapter Text
Seconds slip into minutes, but it feels like Shaw has been looking at you for days by how he’s scrutinizing you. He moves his blue raspberry sucker with his tongue, the candy clacking on his teeth every time he moves it around.
“Can I help you, Mr. TA?” you finally ask, emphasizing his title, thinking it would rub him the wrong way. You drop your pen on the desk in frustration, but you immediately regret the action as it rolls a bit too loudly in the silent library.
“Nope,” Shaw answers. He moves his sucker to the opposite side of his cheek. You frown — food isn’t allowed here. “Just checking to see how badly you’re fairing in an introductory elective course,” he says in a way that rubs you the wrong way — and it isn’t because he’s so suggestive with how he licks that lollipop, either. “But I get you, the prof can be kind of a stickler.” He catches your stare with a raised brow. “Where are your group members, anyway? They ditch ya?”
You try to wave him away by flipping to the next page, hoping he would get the hint that you’re trying to work and not play around. “Abby’s apparently sick and you can check what Luke is doing on his Insta Story,” you grind out, flipping to the next page loudly.
“And James?”
Shaw sits on top of the chair, propping his feet on the seat of it. He puts his weight in his elbows. He stubbornly refuses to sit properly even when the others stare at him.
“Bathroom,” you answer simply, pointing at his bag and notebook that rests neatly in the spot next to yours.
Shaw looks over the other man’s belongings quickly before he jumps down to sit on the seat properly, not even bothering to look guilty at how his jump made a less than ideal sound for the library. The rest of the library looks over at the two of you with a fierce glare. You want to bury yourself in these books while Shaw sits across from you with a smile that shows no interest in the judging looks of the others. There’s a great distance between you but he somehow still takes up your entire space.
Classic Shaw.
He stretches his arm towards yours, his finger slipping under your bracelet. He whistles to express his awe over the gold band that shines under the cold, LED fixtures. “This real? Must have costed a fortune.” He curls his finger, and your wrist follows along with his motion. “Let me guess — a present from Daddy? Or something from your precious Mr. Li?”
You stop yourself from yanking away from his grip, not wanting to ruin your new Tiffany bracelet. Instead, you roll your eyes. “First of all, you’re wrong — it was from my sister-in-law. Second of all, I’m only nice to Mr. Li because he and my father work together. He’s totally not my type.”
Shaw hums, and despite the space between your bodies, you feel the vibration of the sound. His thumb strokes your pulse, and his slow migration from your bracelet to your skin is something you realize a bit too late.
“And what is your type?” he asks, voice slow and rumbling like an incoming thunderstorm.
His boot climbs up your bare leg, the soft leathered material making you shiver upon contact. As he climbs higher and higher up your leg, you part your thighs inch by inch. You lose yourself in his touch, and you know that he knows this as well. Even if he hides it by looking over your spread-out documents, you don’t miss the way his smirk grows under his palm.
“Oh, Shaw— ” He stops at the call. “—When did you get here? Did you need something?”
Shaw snaps his hand and foot away from you, giving James a lazy salute. “Nope,” he drawls slowly. “Got everything I needed…” He rolls his eyes over to you. You cross your arms with a frustrated huff. “…Well, almost.” He stands with his hands in his pockets, a victorious smile gracing his already smug features. “Anyways, if you need help with anything—” His smile falters into a scowl as he looks over at James. “—Pay attention in class. I shouldn’t have to babysit you just because you drank too much the other night.”
“Oh come on, Shaw,” James laughs as he nudges Shaw’s arm sheepishly, “That was one time.”
Shaw snorts, waving his hand in disinterest as he strolls away.
James turns back to look at your shared workspace, his smile still sheepish but his eyes sparkle with anticipation. He reoccupies the empty seat, and while he sits next to you, his overall presence isn’t as noticeable as Shaw’s. Now that you think about it, you don’t think anyone could have a bigger presence than Shaw.
“How do you think about referencing this quote during the conclusion?” you ask. You point at one of the highlighted lines in the many stacks of documents in front of you. “I heard that the professor likes reworking—”
“Do you have time this weekend?” James asks you. There’s a desperation in the way he speaks. The hastiness of his otherwise soft voice shocks you, making you look up at him. “S-Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but…I just thought I’d ask since…”
You shake your head with a frown. “I have practice on the weekends,” you inform him, “It ends at 8, but—” You usually visit Shaw after practice, or he somehow calls you up as soon as you step out of your practice room. But you don’t tell James that. “Sometimes it ends later — you know how directors can be,” you add with a small, helpless smile.
“Then Friday,” he adds quickly, “After your lecture! We can have dinner — or lunch if you’d like!”
You laugh.
The thing about James is that it’s hard for you to say no to him. Even if you want to stay home that night or watch a weird, but comically intriguing indie film with Shaw, you always have the urge to swallow back your refusal when he looks at you with those determined brown eyes as he moves around his entire schedule to fit your own. And when he does that, you think about Shaw, and how your nights are determined by his call, his texts, his desires — him.
Sometimes, you think it’s a shame that you don’t think about James at all.
“Sure, James. We can have lunch this Friday.”
Friday comes far too quickly, and you can’t help but awe at the compact restaurant. It’s an intimate little place that James has brought you to with limited seats and an even limited menu — pudding being the only item listed. You can’t help but giggle at how out-of-place the boy in front of you looks, replacing his red flannel with a formal suit jacket. When you asked him why he wore that instead of his perfectly fine, everyday wear, James blushed and stammered that he simply wanted to dress up.
You should have made some excuse as soon you saw him…
Because now, as you check your phone to see what message Shaw had just sent you, James pushes a Prussian blue, velvet box towards you. “For you,” James says before you can read the message.
“Oh, James,” you sigh. The tennis bracelet he now has in his hands is absolutely gorgeous; bright and shiny just how you like it, but you don’t get lulled into its glittering diamonds like you would usually do. “This must have costed a fortune. How long did you have to work to buy this?”
He doesn’t answer, going to scratch his cheek sheepishly to simply say, “Happy almost birthday.”
You frown. It’s a shame that you don’t think about James at all. Maybe you should since he’s someone who moves his entire day to fit you within it—
“It’s beautiful,” you breathe out in wonder. “But I can’t accept this, James.” You push the accessory away as respectfully as you can manage. “You should give this to someone you like…”
“But I—”
“Someone you truly like, James,” you interrupt, voice firm.
There’s not a single moment of silence when you put your foot down. James presses on stubbornly, and you’re not familiar with this side of James. Maybe you’re not familiar with him at all.
“But I do,” he says, “I do like you, ever since we met at that party.”
That party, where you met Shaw.
You stay silent, head hanging low. You should like James, you should — he’s everything a girl could ask for: he’s nice with eyes sweet like chocolate, offers you his flannel when you shiver in the night, buys you diamonds for your birthday.
Shaw’s the exact opposite of James. He determines what you do for the night. He’s the one who calls you, the one who messages you — Come over — doesn’t even bother adding a please. Seriously, this man has no manners whatsoever!
The girlie said she doesn’t drink.
What, not a fan of The White Stripes?
Hold onto that for me, would ya?
But you still answer him because you crave Shaw and what he gives you.
“James, I—”
“D-Don’t answer yet,” he says abruptly, interrupting you again, “I can wait. Take your time to think this over.” With a shaking, uncertain hand, he lays it over yours. When he moves away from you, the tennis bracelet is latched on tightly. “To really think it over.”
You whimper silently at how the precious stones fit so perfectly around your wrist.
“James, I don’t—”
“Please.”