Page 58 of The Order

“I don’t know if there’s enough room-” I begin, trying to work through the image of us in the closet alone together.

“It was a joke, Forest,” Fallan says, showing me his first genuine smile.

He rubs the back of his neck. “You were supposed to tell me to fuck off,” Fallan mumbles, and now he’s one to make me smile. He looks caught off guard by it, and his gaze lingers on my mouth.

“Then fuck off,” I say jokingly, moving closer to the closet.

“Is that what you really wanted to say?” Fallan asks after a few silent moments. I pause, ready to let the “yes” leave my lips, but instead, I say nothing, giving him one last look before closing the closet door.

I like the idea of Fallan mulling over something I say for once.

We pat down our uniforms, doing our best to keep them orderly. I smooth down my skirt, wincing every so often at the small incision I had given myself behind my ear and the nail marks Josh had left on my skin. Waiting outside the closet, I clutch my sides, counting down the five minutes before Mrs. Auburn will barrel in here to get prepared for her lesson. A small part of the closet door is ajar, giving me and Fallan the light we needed to change. I caught him peeking inside a few times, quickly looking away the minute my head turned in his direction. But now it’s me sneaking glances into the closet, looking over his scarred skin on his back, his muscles flexing as he moves to put on his clean uniform. My reaction time is much slower than Fallan’s. I reluctantly pull my gaze away, but he catches me each time I try my luck at being a better spy.

I glance over at his canvas perched on the desk, slowly moving closer to study the way its intricate colors work together to create an obscure but solemn image. I pull myself away from the closet, no longer focusing on my appearance or the sound of the door opening on its hinges.

“It's not ready yet,” Fallan says.

His hand brushes away my hair from behind my ear. I flinch away from the touch, still unsure how to react to them after what’s happened today. Quickly, he sprays a small amount of my Cure-All behind my ear, pulling it away from my outstretched hand when I try to grab it from him.

“You're not getting it back that easily, Little Dove,” he says, holding the Cure-All high above his head, enjoying how frustrated I am at his ability to hold something over me.

“You’re as insufferable as that nickname,” I say half-jokingly, moving away from him and closer to my canvas. Wincing as I bend down, Fallan holds his position by his canvas.

“How bad did he get you?” Fallan asks, watching me grab my canvas before I sit in front of his desk.

“It left a mark, if that's what you're wondering,” I say, trying my best not to reflect on the feeling of Josh’s nails digging into my side.

“He deserves a boot in his jaw. All of the Untouchables do,” Fallan barks, taking a seat.

I shake my head at him.

“All of them?” I question, looking back at him with a challenge.

He seems to reflect on what he said.

It doesn’t take long for him to become stone-faced once more.

“Well, it's not like they have many redeeming qualities,” Fallan says, quickly burying the kinder side of him I’ve seen today.

“Just stop, Fallan,” I hiss, feeling the barrier between us growing solid again.

“You have no idea how much I wish I weren’t here. Every time I’m here, it's like torture-” he quietly starts.

My words leave me before I can stop myself from saying them.

“Then go back to your sector where you can enjoy all the freedom you want with your blonde whore that you can't seem to get enough of. No one asked you to be here,” I spit, looking back at him with frustration. He pauses his stroke on his canvas.

Angrily, he peers up at me, watching me return to my mindless strokes across my own canvas.

“She gets in your head, doesn't she…? Why?” Fallan questions, tapping his paintbrush on his desk while he waits for a response.

I ignore his question, continuing to paint.

“I’m not sure, honestly. I think I might be losing it,” I admit. There’s a part of me I can’t stop from lashing out at him.

“Maybe you are,” he says, giving me a long sigh. “But if that’s the case, then I guess I am too,” he finishes, pausing to review my work.

“Your art is beautiful.”

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