Page 93 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

I open my mouth to defend the old mug, then remember the stain spreading through my lecture notes yesterday morning. Dash sees the surrender in my face and bends to kiss me before I can make a respectable argument.

The kiss is slow enough to empty my head. His palm presses more firmly against my back as I lean into him, and when he pulls away, his mouth trails along my cheek to the sensitive skin below my ear.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my fingers sliding around his wrist.

Dash kisses my shoulder through my blouse before stepping back far enough to let me breathe. “Use it tomorrow.”

He leaves the mug on my desk and takes the forms with him, apparently deciding I’ve done enough paperwork for one day. I should call him back. I should remind him that removing administrative work from my desk without asking is dangerously close to managing me.

Instead, I run my thumb over the green enamel and smile like an idiot.

Idris courts like he’s getting graded. He brings the tea I like without waiting for me to reach for the cheaper box. He finds a scarf in a soft rust color after hearing me complain about the morning wind on campus. He leaves a book on the nightstand because I mentioned the author during dinner, then acts unsurprised when I find it despite the fact that the edition has been out of print for years.

He also seems determined to make sure I associate every gift with his hands. The scarf arrives around my shoulders while I’m standing at the kitchen island answering an email. Idris steps behind me, drapes the fabric across my chest, and draws the ends into place with unhurried care. His knuckles skim my collarbone before his mouth settles against the side of my neck.

“You’re distracting me,” I say, though I tip my head to give him more room.

“That is deliberate.” His voice is low against my skin, carrying the controlled edge that used to settle me before Garrett poisoned every quiet command in the house. “You’ve read the same sentence four times.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re staring at a student asking whether missing seven classes will affect participation.”

“It’s a complicated ethical question.”

His mouth moves lower, and my answer dissolves when his teeth graze the place above my shoulder. He doesn’t bite. He lingers there, breathing against my skin until I close the laptop and lean back into him.

“That seems less complicated now,” he murmurs.

I turn in his arms and pull him down by the front of his shirt. He kisses me with one hand at my jaw and the other firm on my waist, his restraint still present without becoming distance. When he lifts his head, his eyes are dark and intent.

“Wear the scarf tomorrow, princess,” he says, brushing his thumb over my lower lip. “I like the color on you.”

I wear it.

Theo’s gifts are smaller and somehow harder to survive.

He asks for one of my cardigans before bed and returns it folded the next morning, though it smells so thoroughly like him that I immediately put it back on. He leaves a wrapped pastry beside my grading because he noticed I kept forgetting to eat between classes. He saves a pressed flower from Sloane’s first arrangement and slips it between the pages of the book Idris found, explaining in a soft voice that he wanted me to have something pretty where it wouldn’t wilt.

Each time, he watches me carefully, waiting to see whether asking has weakened the closeness. Each time, I pull him against me before answering.

The next afternoon, my phone lights while I’m between student emails.

Theo: I put your blue pen in the nest.

I look at the message for long enough that the screen starts to dim, then tap it awake again.

Me: I was wondering where that ended up. Are you going to give it back?

Theo: No, I don’t think so. Maybe.

A picture follows. My pen is tucked beside one of my cardigans, half-buried in the blanket he keeps stealing from Idris’ chair.

Me: Should I come get it?

Theo: Later.

Theo: I just wanted it there.