Or take the lift to the 3rd floor
From Create Your Own Story
The elevator hums softly as it ascends to the third floor.
When the doors slide open, you step out into a quiet hallway lined with faded posters advertising last semester’s events. The air smells faintly of old paper and cleaning solution—typical library musk. Your footsteps echo as you walk toward the heavy double doors at the end of the hall, the ones with the chipped green paint and the squeaky hinges.
Pushing inside, you’re met with rows of empty desks, their surfaces gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. Computer stations sit unused, chairs tucked in neatly. No sign of Sam. You’re about to turn back when a sound catches your ear—a rhythmic tapping, the quiet clatter of keyboard keys. It’s coming from behind the towering bookshelves at the far wall, where shadows pool between the stacks.
Curiosity prickles at your skin. You move forward, careful to keep your footsteps light against the scuffed linoleum. The typing grows louder as you approach the last shelf, its contents smelling of dust and yellowed pages. Peering through a gap where books have been pushed aside, you spot Sam slumped on the floor, laptop balanced precariously on his knees. His eyes are glued to the screen, his fingers flying over the keys—but not typing. Pausing. Rewinding.
You tilt your head, squinting at the grainy footage playing on his screen: a boy’s bedroom, bathed in the blue glow of a monitor. The boy—tall, lean, wearing nothing but boxers now—runs a hand through his hair, oblivious. Your stomach drops. You know that face. *Elijah*. From chem class. From the soccer team. From the way Sam’s breath hitches when he leans closer to the screen, it’s obvious this isn’t just some random video.
Then Sam clicks to another tab. Another bedroom, empty this time. Another. He cycles back to Elijah, who’s toweling off his hair now, droplets catching the light as they fall.
“You dirty little perv,” you say, louder than intended.
Sam whips around so fast the laptop nearly slides off his lap. His face drains of color. “Oh *shit*—Jake, I—it’s not—” He slams the laptop shut, scrambling to his feet, but not fast enough. The tight strain of his jeans tells you everything.
“You’re *spying* on people?” Your voice cracks halfway through. “What the *hell*, Sam?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, shoulders hunched, fingers digging into the laptop’s lid. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.
Do you
Get angry and grab the laptop
Or
ask him to show you more of what’s on the laptop you like it
