“We’re colleagues, Emmy. This fake relationship is for you and mom. It doesn’t bleed over into our professional surrounding. That’s all.”
She tapped her finger against her chin, scanning his face. “I hope that’s true for your sake. Because you look at him like he’s the only solid thing in this room. And he looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether to cite you or devour you. You’re supposed to be ‘faking an engagement, Lincoln. But when he touched your arm earlier? You didn’t move away, you leaned in.”
She gave him a look that lasted too long. A look that saw right through his repression.
“Just be careful. Lies are easy to manage. It’s the truth that ruins people.”
She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Lincoln standing in the wake of her words.
He left the lounge, found a quiet corner in the stairwell, and sat on the steps. He pressed his thumb into the bone of his wrist, let the pain settle him. It was better than thinking.
By the time he returned, the announcement for lunch was made. He found the closest table and took a seat.
Malik slid into the seat across from him. “You okay?”
Lincoln nodded, kept his gaze on the snow outside. “Fine.”
Malik’s knee found his under the table. The pressure was definite, not subtle. Lincoln didn’t move.
“You sure?” Malik asked, voice low.
“I said I’m fine.”
Malik set down his fork, reached under the table, and placed his hand on Lincoln’s knee. The touch was gentle, but the weight of it said everything. Lincoln froze, unsure if he wanted to pull away or lean into it. He did neither. He sat, unmoving, as Malik’s thumb stroked once, then twice, over his pants. Lincoln’s heart hammered in his chest, a hard and stupid drumbeat. He waited for Malik to let go, but Malik didn’t.
Instead, Malik lifted his hand and set it on the table, next to Lincoln’s. Their pinkies overlapped for a second, then parted. Lincoln’s skin stayed hot long after. He finished his meal insilence, then stood to leave. As he passed Malik, their shoulders brushed, a slow friction that lingered.
A door he’d had no intention of opening had been thrown wide and he realized he no longer had any desire to close it.
Chapter 4
February 13th | 2:30 PM
Malik
Malik balanced at the edge of a deserted couch, one foot planted on the tile, the other bracing a coffee cup between his knees. The lounge ceiling pressed low, pipes exposed and painted the same lifeless beige as every other campus interior. Conversation droned from tables clustered at the far end.
He worked his thumb in slow circles against the knot at his nape. It hadn’t let up since the drive. The coffee in his hand steamed faintly, but the air above it smelled burnt, closer to melted plastic than beans. He drank anyway. The bitterness spread across his tongue, sour and thin, doing nothing to thaw the fatigue welded into his shoulders.
He didn’t hear Lincoln enter. He never did. Lincoln had a way of appearing in the corner of a room as if he’d been there all along. He stood now just inside the door, taking in the lounge with a glance that swept past Malik, then doubled back. The gaze locked. Malik straightened, the cup almost slipping from his grip.
Lincoln wore a blazer one shade lighter than his usual, which meant he’d left the house in a hurry. His collar stood open, no tie. The professor look, undone by intent. Lincoln’s jaw moved, like he was grinding down words before speaking.
Malik lifted his chin in greeting. Lincoln nodded back, lips pressed thin, then cut a path along the wall, skirting a table where two other attendees sat. Malik stood, leaving the cup on the seat behind him. He tracked Lincoln’s route past the snack counter, past the window with its brittle plastic plants, until Lincoln stopped in front of the vending machine.
Malik closed the distance. The floor vibrated under his step, or maybe that was just his heartbeat. Lincoln’s hands rested in his pockets, shoulders squared, but Malik saw the quick rise of Lincoln’s chest. A deep breath, trying to steady something inside.
They faced the vending machine, rows of snack bags stacked behind dull plexi. Lincoln studied the machine, not even pretending to choose. His left hand flexed at his side. Malik waited.
“We need to talk,” Lincoln said.
He kept his gaze fixed on the numbers above the keypad, but Malik caught the tremor behind the words.
Malik nodded. He jerked his head toward the corner of the lounge, where a battered two-seat couch stood under a bulletin board. Empty, out of the traffic lane. Lincoln moved first, quick and silent, and Malik followed.
They sat. The couch springs groaned under their weight, forcing them closer than either intended. Lincoln angled his knees out, and Malik mirrored, the fabric of their pants brushing at the seams. Malik’s calf touched Lincoln’s for half a second before Lincoln shifted, but he didn’t pull away fully. The air smelled of wet coats and instant soup.
Lincoln clasped his hands in his lap. “About this morning.” He paused. “About last night in the library, too.” The words dropped between them, heavy as a confession.
