A sheen of steam still clung to Arthur’s tall, lithe frame, the damp heat of the shower not yet dispersed, yet his gaze pressed down upon me with a glacial weight. The sharply hewn lines of his face were taut, moving only slightly when my blunt question reached him—just enough to betray, for the briefest instant, a flicker of surprise.

That fleeting trace of emotion vanished too quickly for me to grasp its meaning before he masked it beneath a hurried reply.

“No. I don’t.”

I tilted my head back, holding his eyes for three measured seconds.

They were a stormy, shifting blue, deep as the ocean yet touched with varying shades, their irises etched with dense, concentric spirals like the rings of stone or amber—so impossibly clear and beautiful it defied reason. I had seen many striking eyes during my years here—blue, green, brown, and, in the case of those with heterochromia, a tapestry of them all. But none possessed the pure, unadulterated blue of his, a hue as flawless as his accent, brimming with the cool glow and quiet warmth of the deep sea.

From the unfathomable depths of those eyes, I saw myself reflected back—Arthur meeting my gaze head-on, as if searching my face for some blemish. His right hand, gripping the toolbox, tightened and relaxed again before he repeated softly, “I don’t like you… not in the slightest.”

Yet those small, unguarded gestures betrayed him once more.

I tore my eyes from his and let my gaze wander, lingering on the dampened, firm lines of his thigh, the curve from his lower back to the faint swell of his hips, already imagining how this body might move—its rhythm, its force—whether in a bed or somewhere more unconventional.

“You’re lying.”

The watermelon stir-fried with potatoes on my plate was cooling. I toyed idly with my spoon, stirring twice, before my patience with the game dissolved. Sitting upright, I spoke with quiet certainty.

“You do like me. And you do want to sleep with me.”

Arthur’s proud, sharply angled brows lifted, but the corner of his half-pressed mouth pulled downward, rigid.

“No. I mean—it’s not true.” His eyes slipped from mine, restless and unnatural, flitting across my face before dropping, almost too deliberately, to my shoulder.

Of course it was true. Even if he felt only a fraction of what I imagined, he certainly didn’t dislike me. No one had ever disliked me. My father, a professor of psychology, had taught me well how to make myself impossible to resist. The results were especially apparent in romance—so much so that Matthew’s breakup two days ago was perhaps the greatest blow my love life had ever suffered.

I had never lost faith in myself. If Arthur refused me now, it was only because his fondness for me had yet to outweigh the fortress-like loyalty he held toward Matthew.

Still…

Why did he keep lying to me?

I admitted, I was intrigued. Whether it was some deliberate ploy to catch my attention or an involuntary quirk of the mind, I wanted to uncover it. And, more importantly, I could not bear to lose to Matthew.

No one had ever trampled my pride like this.

Thinking of Matthew’s betrayal, a wave of mild yet persistent irritation rose in my chest. I blinked away the heat, set my spoon in the bowl, and—adopting an unusually gentle, coaxing tone—murmured, “I’m not asking for anything long-term. Just one night. What do you say?”

“No.” His answer came moments later, voice low and rich, each syllable resonating like the deliberate press of deep piano keys. His profile was all clean lines and composure.

This time, he was telling the truth.

…Strange.

He didn’t dislike me, so why didn’t he want to sleep with me?

I should have worn the pink gloss. Just last month, I’d completed a study on which lip color most inspired men to kiss—unsurprisingly, pink triumphed without contest.

I was about to offer something more suggestive when the faint rasp of waterproof soles scraped against the floor.

“…I should go.” Half a beat later, his hand rested on the door handle.

“Wait.”

I rose without thinking, catching his sleeve before he could turn it. His eyes swept toward me in mild puzzlement, and only then did I realize I had no sensible reason to stop him.

A pause.

“I can’t let you walk out drenched like this. You’ve seen those films, haven’t you? The soaking wet plumber—irresistible to any single woman.” I improvised shamelessly. “Matthew left a shirt here. Put it on.”

Before he could refuse, I tugged him toward the bedroom, the door ajar. The wardrobe against the far wall stood open, half-empty save for a few scattered hangers, the clothes I actually wore piled in careless heaps on the floor. A flash of pink lingerie caught my eye; I deftly nudged it beneath a tangerine cocktail dress with my toe and kept leading him forward.

His palm was faintly damp, his fingers long, knuckles hard, yet lacking any roughness. My own felt small in comparison—barely able to grasp the ridges of his wrist.

As we reached the wardrobe, I began to let go—only for Arthur to lightly return the pressure. I arched a brow and turned; his face was serene, the hand that had touched mine now tucked discreetly behind him.

I smiled, turning away to bend down and rummage through the shelves, my question slipping out with deliberate nonchalance.

“Do I feel nice to touch?”

“…God…” A sigh, weary but clear, followed by his answer. “No.”

Which, of course, meant “Yes.”

As expected, my hand found a fine black shirt in a small, unremarkable cloth bag, its side embroidered with ornate gold in the costly style of traditional appliqué.

I had no idea whether it had once belonged to Matthew… or to Peter.

“I’ll leave you to it.” My tone was earnest, my movements unhurried as I gestured politely toward the shirt before stepping backward out of the room.

I pushed the door closed with a show of finality—then, before the echo had faded, slipped it open just enough to peer inside.

The zipper of his dark-blue work jacket rasped downward in a single motion, revealing bare skin beneath—no undershirt, no vest. His chest and abdomen rose and fell in measured breaths, muscles drawing clean lines and shadows. His trousers hung loosely at his narrow waist, the black shirt settling over him with effortless precision.

He glanced down at himself, then rolled each sleeve twice, baring a length of white, sinewed arm, before turning toward the door.

I thought he would walk straight past me; I was about to retreat—when his steps shifted, circling him back to the edge of my bed.

Arthur’s gaze swept the room with faint, undisguised distaste. I couldn’t fault him; even without a breakup, I rarely bothered to tidy.

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he bent—picking up the tangerine dress from the floor.

With one hand, he groped inside the wardrobe for a hanger, and with the other, spread the dress flat—when a glimpse of peach-pink, hidden within its folds, slipped free and tumbled to the floor. Swift as a reflex, he snatched it back into his grasp, only to freeze the instant his eyes fell upon it.

I must admit—tucking my lingerie into the dress earlier had been a decidedly poor idea.

…But wait—why was he holding my dress in the first place?

As if burned, he let go at once, and the undergarment dropped onto the bed. He stared at it for a long moment before, in stiff silence, reaching out again, lifting it with the awkward, ill-at-ease expression of a man handling something that might bite.

It was only when I watched Arthur methodically gather every scattered garment, hanging them one by one onto hangers and into the wardrobe, that I realised—he was tidying my room. Was this compulsion… or cleanliness?

I dismissed the latter at once. If he were truly fastidious, he would never have accepted a stranger’s shirt—nor permitted me to take his hand.

“What are you doing here?”

Lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed him come to stand before me. I hastily rearranged my face into a hurried smile.

“This is my room,” I said. “Just now, I was standing at the bedroom door, watching you change.”

His expression was unreadable; at length, he sighed.

“You needn’t be quite so honest.”

“So, in honour of my honesty,” I followed his lead, “will you tell me why you’re helping me tidy up?”

“…”

Arthur hesitated briefly, then spoke. “I can’t stand—”

The words cut off as his forefinger brushed, without warning, against my cheek and retreated almost instantly. “—these things.”

A smudge of sticky apple jam clung to his long fingers, unmistakably plucked from my skin a moment before.

No wonder he’d been frowning at me…

I blinked, a faint, inexpressible embarrassment settling in, before the thought struck me—perhaps this was, by happy accident, an opportunity.

“My apologies—let me clean that for you.” Without waiting for his consent, I stepped forward, took his hand into my own, and lowered my head to draw the sugared tip of his finger into my mouth.

The nearness of him made my pulse quicken until it felt almost unmanageable. A faint warmth, dampened by the trace of sweat, lingered on his skin. As my tongue curled around the syrupy jam, his expression told me he knew he ought to pull away—yet he could not bring himself to do so.

Beneath my touch, the taut skin of his palm trembled, though it did not conflict in the least with the delicate flush warming the rims of his ears. When I had licked the last sweetness away, I let my tongue wander once over his knuckle—perhaps that was the step too far, for he withdrew his hand in a swift, decisive motion.

My palm was left empty. I licked my lips and looked up at him. He looked back at me.

After a beat, some of the tension eased from him, and he spoke first.

“I washed my hands.”

“…”

What was I meant to say to that?

He seemed on the verge of speaking again, then stopped, hesitating for a long while before blurting out, “From the first time we met, I… disliked you.”

—By which, of course, he meant: *I fell for you at first sight.*

“Don’t trouble me again. I won’t give you what you want.”

—Meaning: *If you trouble me often enough, I’ll give in.*

“Very well. I understand.” I gave him a dazzling smile. From the flicker that passed across his face, he seemed either baffled or mildly alarmed.

Just wait. The game is already mine.

Clearly my unorthodox reaction had left him somewhat unsettled; he rubbed at his brow, conflicted for an instant, then said, “Your number.”

“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.

“Give me your number,” he repeated, enunciating each word.

Though I didn’t understand his sudden change of mind, I recited my phone number at once, without so much as a pause.

He memorised it silently, then turned away. Half a minute later, my phone, lying on the dining table, lit up with an incoming call—from an unfamiliar number.

When I answered, two identical voices reached my ears—one from ten metres away, and one from the receiver.

“Hi.”

Over the phone, Arthur sounded like another man entirely: shy, a little hesitant, utterly devoid of the reserve and cold composure he wore in person. “I just wanted you to know that, in truth…”

But before I could catch the rest, the shrill wail of the student dormitory’s fire alarm split the air.