Chapter 174 | Philosophy of Ethics
Chapter 174: 174 | Philosophy of Ethics
Alexis watched Kumiko’s entire body go soft. Watched her sway toward Jordan like he was the center of gravity. Watched her fingers curl into his shirt. Watched her face flush pink and her eyes go half-lidded and her mouth form a small, involuntary "o" of pure contentment.
Something hot and ugly coiled in Alexis’s stomach.
She knew what that gesture meant. She had seen Jordan do it to Chloe at the apartment last week. It was a thing he did. A headpat. Simple. Casual. Apparently devastating to anyone who received it.
Alexis had never received it.
She had been in the same room. She had been right there. She had watched Jordan’s hand move toward Chloe’s dark hair and settle there like it belonged, and something inside Alexis had screamed even though her face remained perfectly neutral.
Kumiko got headpats now.
Of course she did.
She forced herself to keep walking.
Philosophy of Ethics. Back row. Instagram. Normal Tuesday activities.
She did not think about how Jordan’s hand would feel on her head. She did not wonder if the warmth would spread through her scalp and down her spine the way Kumiko’s expression suggested. She did not imagine what sound she might make if Jordan ever touched her that gently.
She absolutely did not think about any of those things.
The philosophy building was three minutes away. Alexis covered the distance on autopilot, her body navigating around obstacles while her mind refused to cooperate with her demands for silence.
Ricky the Recluse.
That was what she had called him. To his face. In front of everyone. She had dismissed him as a background character, a footnote, a nobody who happened to live in the same apartment complex. She had watched him stumble through social interactions with the grace of a newborn giraffe and felt nothing but vague contempt.
Then he showed up at karaoke.
Alexis had expected the same awkward, apologetic mess she remembered from the apartment building. What she got instead was a six-foot-two wall of unexpected confidence wearing a fitted black t-shirt that outlined shoulders she had not known existed. His hair was different. His posture was different. His voice was different, lower and warmer and infused with something that made her stomach flip when he called her princess for the first time.
She had been wearing his henley when she got home that night.
She had stolen it from his laundry basket two weeks ago. Chloe had invited her to help set up something in Jordan’s apartment, and Alexis had seen the shirt draped over a chair, and her hand had moved before her brain could stop it. She tucked it into her Goyard tote and did not look back.
It was theft. She knew exactly what it was.
She was Alexis Van Der Berg, heiress to a nine-figure real estate empire. She could walk into Nordstrom right now and purchase every henley in the men’s department without touching her credit limit. Hell, she could probably buy the entire inventory of whatever brand Jordan shopped at and still have enough left over for dinner at Nobu.
She wanted this one. The one that smelled like his detergent and had frayed cuffs from repeated washing and carried the specific warmth of having been his before it became hers.
The philosophy building materialized in front of her through the morning haze. Alexis climbed the stone steps with mechanical precision, navigating the maze of hallways until she reached the lecture hall.
Professor Hammond was already stationed at the podium, fumbling with his PowerPoint presentation with all the energy of a man who had surrendered to student apathy somewhere around the Clinton administration.
She claimed her usual territory in the back corner, dropping into the seat with practiced grace. Her laptop came out. A blank Word document appeared on screen, cursor blinking with false promise. A second tab opened almost immediately.
Instagram loaded like muscle memory.
Her feed delivered its usual algorithm-curated selection of curated perfection. Fashion influencers posed in front of white walls, their captions full of sponsored hashtags and affiliate links.
Lifestyle bloggers documented their morning routines with the production value of a Netflix documentary. Three separate girls from her high school class had posted engagement announcements in the past week, because apparently locking down a husband before your sophomore year of college was a competitive sport in Orange County now.
Alexis scrolled past a sponsored post hawking some miracle serum that promised to erase her pores and possibly her problems. Past a video of someone’s overweight French Bulldog struggling to climb stairs. Past a carousel of sunset photos from a girl she had not spoken to since junior prom.
Her thumb stopped.
Kumiko’s cosplay account stared back at her from the screen. Ten thousand followers. A posting schedule more consistent than Alexis’s own therapy appointments. Comments sections overflowing with heart emojis and "literal queen" declarations from strangers who had never met her.
A mirror selfie from this morning showing Kumiko in the lavender cardigan she had worn to class, her twin tails perfect, her smile wide and genuine and completely different from the calculated expressions Alexis had trained herself to produce since elementary school.
Kumiko looked happy.
The observation landed like a physical blow.
When was the last time Alexis had looked happy? Not "flawless" or "enviable" or "Instagram-worthy" but actually, genuinely happy? When was the last time she smiled because something made her smile rather than because smiling was expected?
She could not remember.
Professor Hammond began talking about Kant. Something about categorical imperatives. Alexis did not listen. She closed Instagram, opened Pinterest, and began scrolling through home decor boards with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.
Minimalist living rooms. Modern kitchens. Bedroom designs featuring soft lighting and expensive bedding and absolutely no memory of Jordan McKnight calling her princess in front of thirty-seven witnesses.
Her mind drifted anyway.
The karaoke bar. Jordan had asked about her ideal man. She had described someone tall. Someone with dark blonde or light brown hair. Someone athletic. Someone with a voice that could make her pay attention.
She had described Jordan.
Not intentionally. The words had escaped before she could filter them. And when Jordan pointed out that his hair was dirty blonde and his voice had just made her blush during their duet, Alexis had wanted to die. Right there. On the spot. Spontaneous combustion would have been preferable to the moment of recognition that passed between them.
He knew.