Nothing quite saidlet’s be friendslike smutty books and MMCs that made you weak at the knees.
Quincey: What book are Zeta Sigma Noctura reading this month?
Ezzy: Oh my god. FINALLY !!
Ezzy: It’s called The Don’s Daughter
Quincey: Is that a mafia romance?
Ezzy: It’s the mafia romance. It’s got all the best tropes. Arranged marriage, hate to love, and a one bed scene. Although I’m not sure if the one bed trope actually counts if they are already married but we are all loving it so far.
Quincey: Any chance I can get a copy?
Ezzy: 1000000%
Ezzy: Gotta go, have an essay to write. Love you loads, lets do something on the weekend xxx
Quincey: Love you too <3
Esme rounded off her message by sending me three chillis.Perfect.What more could anyone want from a romance novel?
The first fewdays had passed painfully slowly, which was saying something given that I’d spent most of the time in the library or lectures. Given his aggressive behaviour and consistently foul demeanour, one that I was sure went against some educational code of conduct, I was nothing short of surprised when I found myself actually looking forward to one of Caldwell’s lectures. Isaac had pushed back our lunch, and Esme was holed up with midterm papers, so very few opportunities arose that had me leaving my apartment.
I’d even considered moving out of my apartment altogether. The university had state-of-the-art facilities with showers, lockers, and changing rooms in the gym, a fully functioning cafeteria in the library, and a number of restaurants on the Cedar Ridge campus itself. And whilst round-the-clock access to aBob’sBurrito Bowlor the standard assortment of cafeteria sandwiches sounded enticing, I wasn’t going to be death stared out of my own fucking apartment.
Over the next week, Thallor and I had settled into a routine. It had started off rather tumultuously. We waged a passive-aggressive war against each other. I met his all-out assault of snide remarks and muttered comments, with purposefully loud stomping at the crack of dawn, where he was camped on my sofa bed. That spiralled into him spending hours in the shower until the temperature in the pipes was glacial, and I had to risk hypothermia if I wanted to wash my hair.
The only time we ever really interacted was when Mortimer deigned to show his face, crying for dinner like the greedy little menace that he was. It was only then that Thallor seemed to watch me, often with a nonplussed expression on his face, rather than his typical choice of disdain. I wasn’t sure if the two of them found common ground in their need to make my life a living hell.
I tried not to let it infuriate me when I watched the two of them interact. Where he often offered up little more than a scoff, bitter laugh, or gruff response when talking to me, Thallor indulged the black hairball as if he were his own. He smiled at Mort, ruffled his hair when he purred at his leg, and muttered things I’d done to annoy him; the two of them forming ano-Quincey-allowedclub.
Despite the subtle betrayal that I felt at them bonding almost instantly when it had taken me months to get Mortimer to even step inside, Thallor’s initial anger seemed to dissipate somewhat into something akin to disinterest. We hadn’t talked much. I kept to myself, and he did the same.
I sighedin front of the mirror, arms crossed, and brows furrowed. Like every morning, I stood in a standoff, pacing away from my wardrobe before turning quickly, only to be shot down by my own inability to choose an outfit or properly put one together. Every time I got dressed, I couldn’t quite decide if I liked the outfit or hated it; a daily occurrence that almost always had me second-guessing myself, and pulling on a pair of high-waist mom jeans and a vintage mechanic’s shirt.
However, I was running late and had no time to question the cream coloured, ‘Satan’s Favourite’baby tee I had chosen this morning. I’d paired it with a high-waisted, olive-green corduroy mini skirt with a subtle slit in the front. Esme always told me that I needed tostylemy clothes, not just wear them, so I’d opted to add a silver belt over the top to bring the whole outfit together. I could hear the ‘snatched!’she’d offer up in approval, and chose to trust in my ensemble before pulling on socks and a pair of chunky black combat boots.
I’d also left my hair down out of its usual half-up, half-down style. It wasn’t exactly a revolutionary act of courage, but when your hair’s natural state isperson-that-just-grabbed-a-live-wire,any attempt at styling felt like negotiating with the curl gods.
Bag slung over one shoulder, laptop tucked under my arm, I headed out into the living room. I was expecting Thallor to be sprawled out on the sofa bed, but he was just standing and staring out the window. His hair was slightly messier than it was usually, which suggested he wasn’t sleeping any better than I was. I wasn’t sure why, but something about him losing sleep sent my stomach–the traitorous organthat it was–into a gymnastics routine with one too many somersaults and a double pike vault.
Am I constantly on your mind like you are on mine?
His whole body tensed as the thudding of my shoes reverberated through the space, as if my presence had yanked him away from a faraway thought. I told myself I had just startled him, but I wasn’t sure if he was fully over my immature behaviour from the previous week. Thallor turned to look at me, and when his eyes found me, they didn’t just find me, but took me in.All of me.They moved from my boots up my thighs, lingering at the part that met the start of my green skirt before moving up to read the lettering of my shirt. For the briefest of moments, he flared his nostrils, eyes blooming wide before his eyes met mine. I took in a deep inhale of air. I wasn’t sure how long Thallor had been staring at me, but it was long enough to leave me feeling a little breathless.
Any unwarranted thoughts I had about him possibly approving of my appearance disintegrated with the roll of his eyes and shake of his head. I couldn’t quite hear the words he whispered to himself. I didn’t need to. I knew they’d just have me feeling shitty about myself.
“You can’t be anyone’s favourite anything. There would have to be something likable about you for that to be true.”
Trying not to scowl or react to his imaginary comment, I pointed toward the door, shuffling awkwardly on the spot. I wasn’t sure why I’d chosen a morning where I was already late to try and move our current standing from awkwardly seething strangers to acquaintances who occasionally engaged in small talk. “I have to go to class now.”
“Yes, you have class every day at this time.”I didn’t know you were keeping track.
“Right.” I nodded.
“Are you just going to stand there, or am I to suffer your presence for the rest of the day?”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to try and be civil.”
