“Oh look, it’s my stop. Gotta go.”
The bus really does stop, and the doors really do open, and I really do jump off, but I don’t hang up.
Orok still sees a therapist occasionally. I did for a while, but there were only so many times I could be told the same stuff Orok gives me—Try centering techniques, Your anger is a defense mechanism, Strive to be calm—before I lost my mind. It works for Orok and I’ll be forever grateful he has that option, but it did nothing beyond piss me off more.
I rub at my chest like when I woke up, trying to push away the ache that starts again.
“I want to be better,” I whisper. “I’m afraid I will freak out, and I don’t want to.”
Orok hums, and there’s a smile in his voice now. “That’s the first time you’ve ever said that. You usually choose your anger.”
Do I? I mean, obviously; I know I do. But I don’t want tonotchoose it. Anger isn’t all bad. I just don’t want it to control me.
Anger has protected me, but I’m tired of it being the dominant thing I feel.
Why have I pole-vaulted this emotional crossbar now? Whytoday? I’m not dumb—I know my night with Elethior rattled me, but two orgasms are hardly cause for an internal breakthrough.
It doesn’t feel like I came to this conclusion in one night though, like a light switch has been thrown on because he was such a good kisser. It’s been more… gradual. I’ve had ample opportunities the past few months to fully lose my shit, and I haven’t. Over and over, I’veseenthat I’ve been getting upset, and I’ve refrained from doing anything I couldn’t take back.
Most of the time.
It’s a process.
The sun’s been rising bit by bit; I’ve been living in an in-between not-dawn, not-morning. But the sunisrising, and I think I see it now.
“Thanks, O,” I concede.
He huffs. “You’re welcome, jackass.”
By the time I get to the lab, I’ve decided to call off hooking up with Elethior. It’s the responsible thing to do.
Until I step inside, and see him standing by his desk in ass-hugging dark jeans and a faded gray band T-shirt, his hair tucked behind his ear and a pen in his mouth.
Son of a bitch.
My brows pinch in a whimper I’m thankfully able to stifle.
Elethior looks over his shoulder, notebook open in one hand. His eyes connect with mine and widen slightly, his body going still like he’s worried a sudden movement will make me sprint out of the room. Considering I did that the last time we were both here, it’s a fair concern.
I cross to my workstation and deposit my bag and coat on my desk, gaze on him the whole time.
“Whatcha working on?” I jut my chin at his notebook.
His eyes drop down my body. I forewent smothering myself in one of Orok’s hoodies; seems a moot point now. I’m wearing a blue Henley with tight whitewashed jeans, my brown leather component belt, and faded Converse.
I’d wondered if Elethior had noticed I’d been cocooning myself in oversize clothes, but he’s at least noticing thelackof oversize clothes now, the way his eyes follow the trail his hand took as it snaked up to my neck last night.
Call it off. End it now. Stick out your hand, Sebastian, and say these words:It sucks, but there’ll be no more sucking.
Elethior eases the pen out of his mouth.
Those lips.
Fuck.
By the time his eyes lazily make their way up to mine, an hour might’ve passed. Two. It could be the next day. My heart’s veering onto a runaway course and my hands twitch so I pocket them and lean against my desk, feigning nonchalance.
“What are you working on,” I ask again, but it comes out gruff, a cover question and we both know it.
