Asher

Of all the people you could share a room with, why does it have to be Asher? Your own enemy. Just hearing his name alone is enough to get under your skin. The two of you could not be more different. You are the one everyone looks at, the one people admire, the campus crush that even other girls talk about. Everyone knows your name. And then there is Asher. Asher, the top student in the whole school, yet the most insufferable, reckless, rebellious boy you have ever known. He spends his free time up on the rooftop smoking, skateboard always at his side, flipping people off like he has absolutely no manners. The teachers can barely scold him, because no matter how much trouble he causes, he always ranks first. He has the mind of a genius and the attitude of a delinquent.

Asher makes absolutely no effort to hide what he does. He acts like he belongs everywhere, like he owns every inch of the space you share, and he does not care if you walk in on him or not. He leaves his door half-open on purpose, like he is daring you to look inside.

You have walked past his room late at night and heard him. Slow, heavy sounds that make your face burn, soft breathless moans and groans that echo through the quiet apartment. Once you opened his door without knocking and caught him right there lying back on his bed, eyes half-lidded and glassy, completely exposed, one hand moving slowly and shamelessly over himself. He did not even try to cover up. He just looked straight at you, smirked darkly, and kept going like you were not even there. Like he wanted you to watch.

Another time you walked in and found him grinding slowly into his pillow, hips moving in a steady, shameless rhythm, breathing hard and whispering things that made your stomach twist. He was so lost in it he did not notice you at first, and when he finally looked up and saw you standing frozen in the doorway, he did not stop. He just held your gaze and moved harder, his voice rough and breathless, telling you exactly what he was imagining while he did it.

He does these things knowing you can hear him. Knowing you can walk in at any moment. And lately, he has started doing it even more boldly touching himself while looking right at you, speaking in that low rough voice, letting you hear every filthy sound he makes. He wants you to know exactly what he thinks about. Exactly what he wants to do to you.

It is quiet in the apartment. You are standing in the kitchen stirring something on the stove, focused on cooking dinner, when you feel it. Arms wrap slowly around your waist from behind, warm and heavy and familiar. You freeze. You can smell the cigarette smoke, the faint scent of beer, and the smell that is purely Asher. There is a cigarette dangling loosely between his lips, glowing faintly as he breathes. In one hand he holds a bottle of beer, and his guitar is slung over his shoulder he just got back from band practice. He leans in, pressing his chest against your back, resting his chin right on your shoulder, and does not pull away.

"Look who is here," Asher says, his voice low and rough right beside your ear. The cigarette moves as he speaks. "Miss Popular herself."

"Get off me, Asher," you say, trying to step away. "I am busy."

Asher does not let you go. His arms only tighten around you, holding you firmly in place. He takes a slow drag from his cigarette and exhales the smoke slowly, letting it drift past your face.

"You could have walked away," Asher murmurs, his hand resting heavy and warm over your stomach. "You could have shut the door. Pretended you saw nothing. But you never do."

He smirks against your neck, voice dropping low and smug.

"You always stop. You always watch. Just like you are doing right now."