My eyes roll from the utter relief.
Thank. Fucking.God.
The light from his phone shuts off, so I tap it again to relight it and then carefully swing my legs off the edge of the bed. I spare another glance over my shoulder, only for my heart to wither as I take in his sleeping form.
I feel like a photographer out in the wild, recording a rare sight of the most dangerous animal in the world—hidden in the shadows, terrified of the sleeping beast catching sight of me, yet locked in place, too riveted to do the smart thing and run for my life.
Like most swimmers, his body is egregiously long, with hands that could cover the entirety of my face, feet that likely need custom shoes, and muscles that have no business even existing. His shoulders are broad, biceps incredibly large and toned, his sculpted waist tapered.
Dozens of black, fine-line tattoos cover the expanse of his exposed skin. All of them are smaller yet expertly placed, creating a single art piece altogether. Two hands reach for one another, their fingers scarcely touching, stretching across his chest. A compass on his left bicep has the word ‘saudade’ scribed vertically next to it. Several small stone sculptures of Greek gods are scattered across his arms, some of them depicting only half of their faces while the other half are different celestial designs. I can also make out a few geometric shapes and an outline of a meditatingfigure with Saturn for a head, along with various lines, dots, and swirls that somehow make it all come together cohesively. He has one tattoo beside his hipbone—a simple outline of what appears to be a heart-shaped flower.
Except, his physique isn’t the most dangerous part of him. No, it’s his smile—hisrealsmile. His eyes heavily crinkle at the corners, creating deep divots that curve downward and deep dimples on his upper cheekbones. It transforms a stone-cold face into a sight capable of withering lungs. Those smiles are incredibly rare, and I’ve only glimpsed them a few times from afar.
As much as I can’t stand the sight of him, I also understand why everyone falls at his feet.
Forcing myself out of that dangerous thought process, I face forward and quietly creep to the pile of clothes on his floor, keeping my movements slow and careful as I dress, the material still damp and freezing cold from last night. It’s god-awful. Sliding on each piece feels like wrapping myself in death, but it’s a small price to pay to cover the black ink staining my skin and get the fuck out of here.
Several times, I have to relight his phone so I can see until I’m completely clothed and violently shivering once more.
The second I’m finished, I glance at him, and though it's still too dark to make out a defined feature, his soft breathing lets me know he's still peacefully asleep.
He doesn’t deserve to feel peace.
And because he has every intention of wrecking what little I have, I gun straight for his phone. My heart pounds as I quickly tap the screen, praying to Jesus he has facial recognition to unlock it. I’m instantly disappointed. Instead, his password requires a fucking pattern.
The goddamn psychopath.
I had a chance if it was his thumbprint, face, maybe even a code, but a pattern?
I desperately attempt a few anyway, any shred of hope quickly sizzling away. After one last try, I get the notification that, due to too many failed attempts, his phone is locked for two minutes.
Fuck me so fucking hard.
Frustrated tears gather along the ridge of my bottom lashes, but there’s clearly nothing I can do about that video and picture right now. I’m not giving up on somehow deleting them, but I need to get the hellout of here.
Setting his phone on the nightstand again, I go to open the door, but a small voice in the back of my head screams at me to stop.
After what he did to you last night, you’re just going to leave?
Sunlight is just beginning to creep into the darkness, casting a deep blue glow over the room. I glance around his room, my brain spinning, though it’s like standing outside a locked door, listening to the muffled voices on the other side but unable to make sense of them.
As seniors, we’re given single dorms, which are fairly large, though unlike the rest of our class, he has a full-sized bed. It's unsurprising he'd get that privilege—not that a twin bed could even handle his behemoth body, anyway.
My stare snags on his display cases full of gold medals and trophies. Some of them are so large, he had to rearrange the shelving to make room. If I could, I’d break every fucking one of them, but something tells me Dread doesn’t put a whole lot of value in his medals.
During the Olympics, I caught glimpses of him on TV after beating yet another record or securing a medal. He never smiled, never cheered for himself, had no reaction other than boredom—something journalists and sportscasters had an absolute field day with. Even standing on the podium in his USA outfit and wearing several gold fucking medals around his neck, the best he could offer was mild interest.
A soft snore snaps me out of my completely pointless thoughts, and I go back to searching his room.
I quickly scan over the mini fridge and microwave toward the back left of the room, an organized desk in the corner, and over to a door leading to his half bathroom on the right, a few feet in front of the foot of his bed and perpendicular to a large closet full of neatly arranged clothes.
Unlike most men, he keeps his space tidy, which makes it easy to tiptoe to a large whiteboard calendar nailed to the wall by his desk. I squint as I read over the words, the room just light enough to make them out if I concentrate.
It’s fuckingfull.
It’s a goddamn wonder this man has any time to make my life a living hell.
I locate today’s date, noting the two classes he has this morning and early afternoon—he likely won’t be waking for another hour, thankGod—and thenSwim Meetwritten below for this afternoon. His scrawl is neat, which is further proof he’s a psychopath. Any man who doesn’t adopt chicken scratch as handwriting can’t be trusted.
