Page 37 of Phantom Faceoff
You can stop hiding. I’m leaving.
But as I leave the room, there’s no sign of him in the halls. Not down the flights of stairs. Not in the dorm common area. I suppose he could be in one of the bathrooms “taking care of” himself.
Me
Sorry for the boner.
I’m not actually sorry. Being able to witness how turned on Malachi was watching us? That’s the most erotic shit I’ve ever seen.
He still doesn’t answer, and I gnaw on my lip until I taste blood on my tongue.
Okay. If I had witnessed what he just witnessed, I probably wouldn’t respond to my texts either.
But I can’t go home without touching base. Not because I’m asking for trouble, but because … oh, fuck it. Add it to the list of my own personal reckless endangerment.
Malachi puts up with me because Julian likes me. He got turned on because he’s a gay, male human, and it’s a natural reaction.
Me seeking him out serves no one but myself.
I do it anyway.
Because I’m selfish. Reckless.
And screw me if I maybe sorta like the guy and don’t want him to go back to completely hating my guts.
I also like passing my class and arguing over dumb pop culture shit.
I wade around campus—the library, the shops—until the sky darkens to a midnight shade. I suppose he could have returned to his dorm by now, but a little voice in the back of my head tells me to keep looking.
When I find him, the flurry of jumbled and horny thoughts comes to a screeching halt. For the first time in hell knows how long, my head is a silent wasteland.
Malachi is situated under the giant willow tree in the quad. His eyes are closed as he rests his head back on the trunk of the tree. His hair—which barely hangs below his ears—is a deep red with intentional streaks of silver that catch on the moonlight.
I don’t want to startle him, but I also don’t want to stand around staring like a creep.
The grass rustling as I settle on the ground in front of him is what garners his attention. Gray eyes peer at me through the darkness, and I’ve never felt more exposed. Not even when I was literally exposed.
I don’t know what I want to say, but the “I’m sorry,” that slips out isn’t it.
Malachi’s lips quirk up into a ghost of a smile, and I find myself reciprocating.
“Not like I saw anything indecent,” he says, somehow both soft and sarcastic.
I scratch at a scab on the back of my neck. Something about the gentleness in his expression has honesty itching to get out of my throat.
“I wanted you to.”
There’s no surprise, just a slight, quiet resignation in the way he tips his head back to stare through the thick of leaves and branches above.
He doesn’t speak, and it feels like a heavy hand plucking at a string in my chest.
“I make you uncomfortable.”
He doesn’t deny it, just drums his fingers on his thigh to a familiar marching tune.
“Malachi,” I whisper his name in a desperate attempt to fight off the rush of emotion making my vision blur. “I need you to say something.”
His fingers still. His eyes find mine. An ethereal softness sweeps over him. He rises to his knees, and there’s this gravitational pull that draws me closer. An inch at a time until our knees touch and his hand transfers from his thigh to mine.
