Drafting Tape

The radiator rattled, a dying metal lung in the corner of the room. It was the only sound competing with the aggressive silence of the snowstorm pressing against the glass, turning the window into a slab of absolute black. Inside, the air was stale, recycled, and smelled faintly of marker fumes.

Ren slumped back in the ergonomic mesh chair that cost more than his entire wardrobe, letting his head hit the headrest with a dull thud. He stared at the ceiling. White plaster. bumpy. Like the skin of an orange painted over by a landlord who didn't care. He spun a mechanical pencil between his fingers—a nervous tic that was starting to make his knuckles ache.

"Stop fidgeting," Jeff said. He didn't look up from his drafting table. His voice was low, devoid of inflection, matching the sterile precision of the lines he was laying down on the vellum. "You're vibrating the floor."

"I'm not vibrating the floor," Ren muttered, though he stopped spinning the pencil. He let it drop onto the desk, where it rolled and hit a half-empty can of cheap energy drink. "I'm existing. Loudly. Because this assignment is… it’s actually violence. It’s academic violence."

Jeff finally paused. He set his compass down with deliberate care. He was wearing that grey cable-knit sweater that made him look like a model for a depressing Scandinavian lifestyle brand—expensive, textured, and completely untouchable. He swiveled his stool around. His eyes, dark and unamused, locked onto Ren.

"It’s a five-page analysis on Brutalism, Ren. Not a war crime. Just write the paragraph about the raw concrete and be done with it."

"It’s the hypocrisy," Ren said, gesturing vaguely at his laptop screen, which was currently displaying a blank document and a blinking cursor that felt like a heartbeat monitoring his failure. "We’re studying buildings designed to be 'honest' while paying fifty grand a year to live in a glass box that feels like a prison. The irony is suffocating. I can't write when I'm suffocating, Jules."

"You’re not suffocating. You’re procrastinating." Jeff stood up. He was tall, unfolding his limbs with a grace that always annoyed Ren. It was unfair for someone to be that smart and that coordinated. Jeff walked over to the small kitchenette area, the floorboards creaking under his socks. "And don't call me Jules."

"Whatever, Jeff." Ren rubbed his face, feeling the grit of exhaustion in his eyes. It was 2:00 AM. The snow had trapped them here since noon. The trains were down, the roads were ice, and Ren was stuck in the immaculate, terrifyingly organized sanctuary of Jeff’s room. "I should have just walked home. Frostbite sounds peaceful compared to your… judgment."

"You would have died," Jeff said flatly, the kettle clicking on. "And then I’d have to explain to the Dean why my project partner is a frozen statue on the quad."

"At least I'd be art."

Jeff didn't laugh. He never laughed at Ren’s self-deprecating jokes, which only made Ren want to make them more. It was a sickness, really. Poking the bear. Trying to get a reaction out of someone who treated emotions like structural inefficiencies to be engineered out.

Ren looked at Jeff’s back. The way the sweater stretched over his shoulders. The straight line of his spine. There was a tension there, a rigidity that Ren wanted to snap. He looked away, heat creeping up his neck. God, he was pathetic. He was here to study. Just study.

He leaned forward, grabbing the mouse to scroll through a PDF he hadn't read. His elbow knocked into a stack of Jeff’s reference books—heavy, hardcover tomes on urban planning. They slid.

"Shit," Ren hissed, lunging to catch them.

He missed. The books hit the floor with a sound like a gunshot.

Jeff turned around slowly. He held a mug of black coffee in one hand. He didn't yell. He didn't sigh. He just looked at the books, then at Ren.

"I’ll pick them up," Ren said quickly, scrambling out of the chair. He dropped to his knees, his jeans scraping the thin rug. "Sorry. I’m just… I’m jittery. Too much caffeine."

"Ren."

"I know, I know, 'clumsy is a choice,' or whatever you said last week. I’m picking them up."

Ren reached for the top book, The Death and Life of Great American Cities. His hand was shaking. Why was he shaking? It was just a book. It was just Jeff. But the air in the room felt suddenly heavy, pressurized like the cabin of a plane.

A shadow fell over him. Jeff was standing right there. He hadn't heard him move.

"Leave it," Jeff said.

"I got it."

"I said leave it." Jeff crouched down. He was close. Too close. The smell of him—sandalwood soap and something colder, like rain on pavement—hit Ren’s senses. Ren froze, his hand hovering over the book cover.

Jeff didn't reach for the book. He reached for Ren’s hand.

The contact was electric. Not a spark, but a shock—a sudden, grounding weight. Jeff’s fingers were cool, rough from the model-making materials, wrapping around Ren’s wrist with a firmness that bordered on possessive. He pulled Ren’s hand away from the mess.

"You’re going to tear the jacket," Jeff said softly. His voice was right by Ren’s ear.

Ren couldn't breathe. He stared at their hands. Jeff’s thumb was pressing into the soft skin of Ren’s inner wrist, right over his pulse. He wondered if Jeff could feel how fast it was hammering. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"I wasn't…" Ren’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I wasn't going to tear it."

"You’re shaking," Jeff observed. He wasn't looking at the books anymore. He was looking at Ren’s face. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and terrifyingly focused. It was the way he looked at his blueprints. Like he was calculating load-bearing limits. Like he was figuring out exactly how much pressure it would take to make Ren break.

"I told you. Caffeine," Ren lied. His breath hitched as Jeff’s thumb stroked, just once, a slow, deliberate line across his vein.

"You’re lying," Jeff said. "You always lie when you’re overwhelmed. You get loud, and cynical, and you break things."

"I didn't break anything!" Ren tried to pull his hand back, but Jeff’s grip tightened. Not painful, just… absolute. An anchor.

"You’re breaking yourself," Jeff murmured. He shifted, his knee brushing against Ren’s thigh. The contact burned through the denim. "Look at me."

Ren didn't want to. He really, really didn't want to. Looking at Jeff this close was dangerous. It made the cynicism dissolve. It made the "we're just study partners" lie impossible to maintain. But his body betrayed him. He looked up.

Jeff’s face was inches away. He wasn't wearing his glasses. There was a small scar on his chin that Ren had never noticed before. A flaw. A crack in the marble.

"Why do you care?" Ren whispered. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a terrifying vulnerability. "We’re just… getting through the semester. None of this matters."

"Stop saying that," Jeff said, his voice dropping an octave, rougher now. "Stop acting like you don't matter."

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the hum of the refrigerator and the wind howling outside. It wasn't a peaceful silence. It was a precipice.

Ren felt his heart lodge in his throat. Jeff wasn't letting go of his wrist. If anything, he was pulling him closer, a microscopic shift in gravity. Ren could feel the heat radiating off Jeff’s chest.

"Jeff…" Ren started, not sure what he was asking for. Permission? Mercy?

"You think you’re so transparent," Jeff said, his gaze dropping to Ren’s mouth, then back up to his eyes. The movement was slow, deliberate. "But you have no idea what you look like right now."

"What do I look like?" Ren breathed.

Jeff leaned in. The distance between them vanished. Ren could feel Jeff’s breath on his lips—warm, coffee-scented. His eyes fluttered shut, his body bracing for the impact, for the kiss that would ruin everything.

"Like a structural collapse waiting to happen," Jeff whispered.

He didn't kiss him. Instead, he let go of Ren’s wrist and reached up, his hand cupping the back of Ren’s neck. His fingers tangled in Ren’s hair, thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind his ear. It was intimate, far more intimate than a handshake or a hug. It was a claim.

Ren shuddered, a sound escaping his throat that he couldn't suppress. He leaned into the touch, his forehead dropping to rest against Jeff’s shoulder. He was shaking, actually shaking, and he hated it. He hated how much he needed this.

"Breathe," Jeff commanded, his voice vibrating through Ren’s chest. "Just breathe, Ren."

They stayed like that on the floor, surrounded by fallen books on urban decay, while the snow buried the world outside. Ren closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of sandalwood and skin, terrified by the realization that he didn't want to be anywhere else. He didn't want to be safe. He wanted to be right here, in the wreckage.

Jeff’s hand tightened in his hair, just slightly. A warning. Or maybe a promise.