Onyx's POV
I was alone in my room, seated at my study desk, my laptop open in front of me—staring at it as if it might confess something if I waited long enough. I was supposed to be working on a client's unit requirement. The deadline was reasonable. The task was familiar. Manageable.
And yet, nothing moved.
My fingers hovered above the keyboard, useless.
"Cute."
The word lingered far longer than it had any right to.
It echoed in my head, soft and intrusive, replaying itself with irritating clarity. No one had called me that in years. Not since childhood. Not since my parents, back when praise came without complication or intent.
But coming from Jace—
I shut the thought down immediately.
I know it was nothing. Just Jace being Jace. Tossing words around without weight or consequence. Provoking reactions the way he probably wanted, like he enjoyed tapping glass just to see if it would crack.
I wasn't supposed to crack.
So I didn't.
At least, not where he could see it.
When he said it, I had looked at him calmly and told him—flatly—that if he had other things to do, he was free to leave. I said I'd be heading to my next class anyway.
I didn't entertain the comment. Not even for a second.
I knew what he was doing. Testing limits. Measuring how long it would take before I reacted—before I slipped and gave him the satisfaction of a response. Teasing. Mocking. Pushing.
Unfortunate for him, I had mastered the art of being emotionally restrained early in life. Praise, criticism, judgment—none of it reached me unless I allowed it to. And I rarely did.
After I told him he could leave, he packed his things without a word. When I glanced at him, his expression was unreadable, masked behind that lazy, indifferent look he always wore like armor. He didn't look angry. He didn't look amused.
He just left.
As if I had offended him.
Which was absurd, considering he was the one saying strange things, not me.
Good.
I forced my attention back to my screen. Database logic. Table relationships. Normalization rules. Anything that wasn't him. Anything that didn't make my chest feel strangely tight, like something was pressing inward from the inside.
I exhaled slowly and pushed myself to work.
Those thoughts should have stayed where they belonged—back in that moment, sealed and forgotten. And yet, hours later, they were still here. Still clinging.
That was when my work phone buzzed beside my laptop.
I glanced at it, expecting a new client message.
And there it was.
Melody:
Hi Mr. Lifesaver!!! Good evening! Just wanted to check how my request is going? Not trying to rush you. T.T
Sent: 9:56 p.m.
Me:
I've already started.
Don't worry—I'll send it once it's done.
I might even finish earlier than expected.
Sent: 9:56 p.m.
Melody:
Oh! Don't worry! Take your time! Like I said, no need to rush.
Sent: 9:56 p.m.
I nodded to myself, as if she could see it, and didn't respond. But of course—she messaged again.
Melody:
Have you eaten dinner? Don't work too hard. You need rest too sometimes! I suddenly feel guilty because you probably have your own unit requirements, plus requests from other students, and then there's me. T.T
Sent: 9:57 p.m.
I sighed quietly.
She was trying to make it a long conversation again.
I never wanted to be friends with my clients.
Me:
Yes. I'm fine. Don't worry. Thank you.
Sent: 9:57 p.m.
That should do it.
It was polite. Neutral. Complete.
A few minutes passed, and just as I expected, the conversation ended. I wasn't trying to be dismissive. I simply didn't want attachments. Clean transactions. Clear boundaries. That was all.
I turned back to my laptop and resumed working.
And then—without warning—Jace's presentation from earlier flashed into my mind.
The ridiculous curtain transition. The clapping sound effect. The bold text appearing with exaggerated gunshot noises.
And that...
"Welcome to Jace and Onyx's Wonderful and Enjoyable Presentation! ;)"
I laughed.
Out loud.
The sound startled even me.
"That was idiotic," I muttered, pressing my lips together as if that would undo it.
I shook my head slowly, remembering how proud he had looked. Like he'd spent real effort—real time—putting it together.
Then I froze.
A realization crept in, unwelcome and sharp.
What if, instead of appreciating his effort, I had made him feel like I was looking down on it?
What if that was why he shut his laptop so abruptly? Why he stopped working altogether?
My chest tightened again.
Should I apologize?
But apologizing meant opening a door. Building a connection. Letting something extend beyond what was necessary.
And yet—if I didn't—working with him would be difficult. Cooperation required morale. People worked better when they felt acknowledged. When they felt... encouraged.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.
Maybe I had been a little harsh.
Just a little.
Before I could overthink it further, I grabbed my personal phone and typed.
Me:
Hi, Jace. Good evening. Are you still awake?
Sent: 10:18 p.m.
No reply.
I stared at the screen, waiting.
Nothing.
I set the phone down, telling myself it didn't matter. He was probably busy. Out drinking again.
He presented himself as someone who had time to waste.
And yet, my eyes kept drifting back to the phone.
Waiting.
Despite myself.
I tried to focus on my work again.
I really did.
Seconds passed. Then minutes. My phone stayed face down beside my laptop—silent. No vibration. No notification. Nothing.
Maybe he was already asleep.
The thought shouldn't have bothered me as much as it did.
When I finished a section of my work, I shut my laptop and stood, letting the chair scrape softly against the floor. I washed my face, the cold water grounding me, then crawled into bed. The room was quiet, dim, too still.
Before I could change my mind, I reached for my phone.
One last message.
I typed carefully. Slowly. Like every word mattered.
Me:
About your PowerPoint presentation earlier, I apologize if I said something wrong. I didn't mean to look down on your effort. I actually appreciate it. If you really want to handle the presentation, please do. Just try to lessen the unnecessary transitions. And if I crossed a line or made you feel bad, I'm sorry. I know we both want this project to succeed, so let's work together. That's all. Good night. See you tomorrow.
Sent: 11:45 p.m.
I stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary.
"Okay," I murmured to myself. "That should be good. That should be enough."
I locked my phone, placed it on the bedside table, and closed my eyes—telling myself I'd done my part.
* * *
The next day, we were already in Database Management Structure class. The professor had barely said anything before instructing us to work on our Capstone Project for the entire session.
Pairs sat together. The room buzzed with noise—soft laughter, overlapping conversations, the sound of chairs shifting and keyboards clicking.
And then there was us.
Jace and me. Sitting side by side.
We hadn't spoken once since morning.
Not even a lazy, half-hearted "morning."
Nothing.
I kept my eyes on my screen, working through my tasks, but curiosity crept in despite my effort to ignore it. I stole a quick glance at his laptop.
And paused.
He wasn't coding.
He wasn't sketching diagrams.
He wasn't even doing his "executive-level" powerpoint presentation.
He was... arranging desktop icons.
Alphabetically.
With his mouse.
Even though there was literally a shortcut for it.
I blinked.
What was he doing?
Wasn't he supposed to be working on his part of the project?
Or was he just killing time?
Before I could stop myself, I sighed and refocused on my screen.
"Jace," I asked, keeping my tone neutral, eyes still on my laptop. "Are you doing our task?"
"No," he said honestly.
I turned to look at him.
"I was waiting for you to tell me to start doing it," he added.
I frowned.
"But I already explained everything in the timeline I sent," I said calmly. "I divided the tasks. I even explained what needed to be done. Okay, can you please start doing it now?"
He shrugged. "Didn't feel like doing it."
I exhaled slowly.
So he wasn't in the mood.
We still had time—for now—but if this continued, he'd cram. And I'd end up cramming too.
"Do you want me to help you with the task?" I asked.
"No," he replied immediately.
Okay.
Then what was I supposed to do?
I was actively trying not to trigger him.
He picked up his phone and started playing a game. Right there. In front of me. Completely unbothered by the professor walking around the room.
Fine.
If he didn't want to work, I'd mind my own business.
I sighed, shook my head, and returned to my laptop, continuing where I left off.
I focused.
Or at least, I tried to.
Beside me, he muttered, "Shit," then clicked his tongue. "Noob team."
He was fully immersed in his game—facing my direction, fingers flying across the screen—while I worked.
Was this his default state—
or just another version he chose to show?
Done pretending. Done being polite.
The Jace who didn't care. Who took things for granted.
I remembered the message I'd sent last night. The apology. The effort. The careful wording.
Did he read it?
Or did he misunderstand it?
"Jace," I said softly.
"Bam! Fucker!" he hissed, still tapping furiously.
Of course.
I waited.
When his game ended, he smirked and finally looked at me.
"Huh?" he asked. "You were saying something?"
Then he looked back at his phone, already loading another game.
"Did you receive my message last night?" I asked. "Around 11:45 p.m.?"
"The long one?" he asked, eyes still on the screen.
"Yes."
"Yeah. I saw it," he said, glancing at me briefly before refocusing.
"Did you read it?"
He scoffed lightly. "I hate essays. I told you already."
I nodded once and turned back to my laptop.
So that was that.
I shouldn't have bothered sending it.
At least now I knew—long messages were pointless with him.
I didn't look at him again.
There was nothing to acknowledge. Nothing to wait for. He'd said his piece. I had work to do.
End of interaction.
My fingers returned to the keyboard.
I forced my eyes to focus on the schema diagram on my screen—even as my awareness of him stayed sharp and unavoidable.
Silent.
Loud.
Right beside me.
A minute passed.
Then another.
The tapping on his phone stopped.
I didn't react.
I heard the faint click of his phone locking. The subtle scrape of his chair shifting—barely an adjustment. Small enough that no one else would notice.
But I did.
Then I felt it.
Warmth. Weight.
He rested his arm along the back of my chair—not touching me, not crossing any obvious line, but close enough that my shoulders stiffened instinctively. Close enough that my awareness sharpened.
He leaned in just enough to see my screen.
I caught him in my peripheral vision—his gaze focused, sharp, entirely locked on my work—before I forced myself to look away again.
"Your foreign key's wrong," he said casually.
My fingers stopped.
I didn't look at him. "What?"
"The user_id," he continued, voice unbothered. Almost lazy. "You linked it to the temp table instead of the main one. It'll break once you normalize it."
I stared at the screen.
He was right.
Slowly, I scrolled back up, retracing the relationships. The mistake was subtle. Quiet. The kind that didn't announce itself. The kind that waited patiently until it could ruin everything later.
I exhaled under my breath.
That shouldn't have happened.
I was careful. Meticulous. I didn't miss things like this.
Unless—
I swallowed.
Had I been distracted?
My thoughts flickered somewhere I didn't want them to go.
Him.
"I thought you didn't care about the project anymore," I said, still refusing to look at him.
"I just took a quick glance," he said, shrugging.
That was a lie.
You didn't catch errors like that by glancing. You had to understand how the tables were meant to behave—how they would interact later, not just now. You had to anticipate the failure before it happened.
That level of awareness isn't accidental.
It comes from focus.
From experience.
From knowing what you're doing.
I looked at him, quieter this time.
...Was he actually more capable than he let on—or had he just decided not to show it?
I corrected the link, my fingers moving faster than before.
"Thanks," I said quietly.
He didn't respond.
Instead, he leaned back, his arm lifting from behind my seat as if it had never been there at all.
And for the first time since I'd met him, I wondered—
Was he just pretending to be careless?
"You do that a lot," he said.
"Do what?"
"Act like you don't need help," he replied.
No teasing. No mockery.
Just a statement.
I swallowed.
"I don't," I said.
This time, he let out a soft breath through his nose. Not a laugh. Not amusement.
Something closer to acceptance.
"Sure," he said.
Silence settled between us again—but it was different now. Less sharp. Less guarded.
I kept working.
A few seconds later, without warning, he uttered something.
"And for the presentation," he added lightly, "I'll redo it. No gunshots. No clapping. No excessive transitions."
I glanced at him before I could stop myself.
He was already looking at my laptop. Not at me.
Like that, too, was intentional.
"...Okay," I said.
He leaned back in his chair, hands folding behind his head, eyes drifting up to the ceiling like he had nothing else to worry about.
"Next time," he said lazily, "don't send messages that long. Especially before sleeping."
I hesitated.
Then, quietly, he turned to his laptop and logged back in.
I noticed only because I glanced at him with just my eyes.
"But I did read the whole thing," he said.
This time, he looked at me.
Our eyes met—finally.
I didn't say anything. I just stared.
He smirked.
"Try not to think too much about me when it's late," he said lightly, a hint of a smirk in his voice.
I swallowed, then quickly looked back at my screen.
I forgot what I'd been doing.
And I didn't know why.
End of Chapter 7