Page 60 of The Misfit

I watch him openly, but only because he’s partially asleep. I would never be brave enough to do such a thing if he were awake. In my mind, there is nothing more that I could possibly be embarrassed about, not after I let him see me naked and basically begged him to fuck me, but that’s a lie. I’m still bashful and insecure in his presence.

Unlike him, it’s difficult for me to be as open with my emotions and thoughts. Sometimes I envy him. Other times, I wonder what consequences there must be for always baring your heart to the world.

My gaze cuts from his eyelashes to roam over his strong jawline and finally the tendons in his throat. I bite my bottom lip, thinking about pressing kisses against his throat again.

As if I would ever be brave enough to do such a thing of my own volition?

His chest rises and falls in a rhythm that I find myself counting without meaning to.

One, two, three breaths.

Again.

Again.

I adjust my calculus textbook three millimeters to the left, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the table. Lee cleaned the surface for me when we arrived—three careful swipes with sanitizing wipes. He made no complaints and asked no questions, just like he’s done every day for the past two months.

Two months of pretending.

Two months of counting together.

Two months of trying to convince myself this is still fake.

I don’t think I can make that argument after the other day. It doesn’t feel fake anymore.

He shifts in his sleep, locks of dark hair falling across his forehead, and my fingers itch to brush them back.Get a grip, Salem.I clench them in my lap instead, the nitrile squeaking.

The sound makes the sides of his mouth lift in a small smile, even unconscious. It’s crazy how attuned to my habits he is, recognizing the small sounds of my anxiety even when he’s asleep, like they’re his own soundtrack.

“I can feel you counting my breaths, Pantry Girl,” he murmurs without opening his eyes.

Oh god. He caught me.

I have no reason to be embarrassed, yet heat crawls up my neck. “I’m not?—”

“Thirty-seven in the past five minutes.” His smile grows. “Plus fifteen times you’ve adjusted your book and at least twenty glances at the ceiling.”

“That’s not fair. I thought you were sleeping.”

“Not quite. I can hear your thoughts, almost as if you’re saying them out loud.” He cracks one eye open, storm-gray and amused. “And of course I wouldn’t mind taking you back to my bed, spreading you out, and feasting on your …”

“Stop it right now!” My cheeks burn red hot, but the twinkle of mischief in his eye tells me he’s far from finished. “I was not thinking about what we did,” I whisper the last part as if we aren’t at a university where sex and alcohol are a part of the daily curriculum. I need to find a way to mask my expressions better.

I blink and ensure my face is clear of all emotion, but I still can’t get the thoughts out of my head. I can still feel his mouth on my skin, the way he turned the heat inside me into an inferno I haven’t been able to quench since that day.

He lifts a brow as if to say,liar, liar,but doesn’t call me out. “Fine, then I’ll answer another question I’m sure you want to ask.”

“And what’s that?”

“How I escaped The Mill?”

All I do is roll my eyes even though the mention of the Oakmount estate makes something twist in my chest. He’d shown up this morning with dark circles under his eyes and a triumphant grin, announcing he’d finally found his own apartment.

Freedom, he had called it. I was curious to know what that freedom had cost him because nothing in life was actually free. I doubt he noticed how I counted the bruises on his knuckles—four distinct marks.Did he and his father get into a fight? Or did he punch the wall?I couldn’t say that I wasn’t proud or happy for him. I’m sure it took a lot of effort and bravery to do what he did, but I was also afraid of what type of impact being on his own might have on him. Lee is social. He needs the light on him, but not so much that it suffocates him.

“The Mill is not a prison. You didn’t escape it.” I shake my head at his dramatics. “Is there a reason for the bags under your eyes? Have you not been sleeping? Maybe you should go home and sleep …” I tell him, but we both know I don’t mean it. These quiet moments in the coffee shop have become our sanctuary. Our bubble of safety where we can just beus.

“I am home.” He stretches, and the motion causes his shirt to rise, exposing a strip of muscled skin on his abdomen. I can’t help but stare. “Wherever you are, counting things and making that adorable squeaking sound with your gloves. That’s my home.”

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