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Tearing my gaze from him, and ignoring the part of me that was screaming, telling me I was making a mistake, I nodded. “I’ll see you around.”
“Killian?”
I glanced back up.
He hesitated, still worrying at his lip, and then he exhaled heavily. “The coffee has to stop. You know that, right?”
“I know. It was…” Fuck. “It’ll stop.”
With a nod, he swiped his bag from the floor, but he didn’t make a move towards the door.
“What now?” I forced as much brusqueness into my voice as I could manage when he was staring at me with those pretty eyes.
“How often does this happen? The working too hard and forgetting to eat thing?”
I chuckled humourlessly. “It goes with the territory. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m perfectly able to cope.”
“Right.” His eyes fluttered closed, his mouth turning downwards. When he opened them again, his gaze was impossible to read. “Want to swap numbers?”
Swapping numbers. No. That was a bad idea. Somehow, though, I found myself retrieving my phone from my desk drawer. Pausing for a moment, I met his gaze. “What would me giving you my number mean to you?”
He shrugged, shifting his bag on his shoulder with the movement. “It doesn’t mean anything. We had fun. I’m not looking for anything. Fun is all I want. But…maybe if you’re having a bad day, you could text me or something. I’m a good listener.”
Right. I gave a brief nod. “Okay. Add your number. I’ll text you…sometime.”
A smile pulled at his lips, but it looked sad. He took my phone, tapping at the screen, and then slid it back across the table. “Done.” Stepping back in a move reminiscent of the first time he’d been here, he opened the door. “Bye, Killian.”
This routine was becoming far too familiar already. I hated it, because despite what my common sense told me, all I wanted was to keep him there with me.
I didn’t want him to leave.
9
“You can do this.”
Leo sucked in a shaky breath. “I don’t think I can.”
“You can, and you will,” I promised him. “It’s only my grandma and a few of her friends. You’ve got this. Just concentrate on the music and remember that you’re not alone. Alyssa’s here, and so am I. We’ve got this.”
Trying to help Leo through his sometimes-crippling shyness was a relief, in a way. This was something I could deal with. A situation where I could be useful. Something that didn’t involve a certain person who I’d given my phone number to and who hadn’t sent a single text since.
Not to mention that on top of my other commitments, I also taught weekly dance classes to teenage students at a local youth centre. I was used to shyness, to anxiety, to debilitating nerves. This was something I was comfortable dealing with. I was in control.
Gently clasping Leo’s chin, I forced him to look at me. “Place your hand on my chest.” When his shaking fingers connected with my torso, I folded my free hand over his, holding it in place. “Good. Breathe, babe. Breathe with me.”
When his eyes stopped looking so glassy and his breaths had slowed, I loosened my grip, giving him a reassuring smile. Performing for anyone was well out of his comfort zone. We’d become friends during an open day event that LSU had been hosting back when we were just prospective students. I’d been enthusing over the dance options on offer, deep in discussion with one of the current students, when I’d noticed a boy watching us, all huge green eyes and bright red hair, longing written all over his face. He was dressed in nondescript faded jeans, scuffed trainers, and a black T-shirt with a logo I couldn’t identify, thanks to the course prospectus he had clutched to his chest.
The girl I’d been talking to noticed him watching us, and she beckoned him over with a friendly wave and a smile. His eyes had widened even further, if that was possible, and his cheeks had flushed a deep red. Shaking his head, he’d stammered something, backing away from us. I didn’t know what it was, but some instinct had made me go to him, to take him aside into a quiet corner…
“S-sorry,” he whispered, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I-I didn’t mean to stare.”
“Nothing to apologise for. Are you interested in the dance degrees?”
He bit down on his lip. “I p-planned to do computing. But…”
“You get elective modules, right?” Tugging him over to a bench, I retrieved the brochures from his unresisting grip, flipping through them. “Look, see. If you did this, or even this one, you’d need another fifteen-credit module to make up the right amount of credits for the first semester. Why don’t you do dance? You can do whatever you want.”
Staring at me, he whispered, “I can?”
