Maybe I’m overly stressed from the harassing texts. Maybe I’m already too exhausted from school even though we’re not even halfway through the semester. Maybe it’s the ice cream truck, or knowing that Aeron seems to want nothing to do with me, or it’s that Dorien hurt me deeper than I want to admit.
Maybe it’s everything.
It’s everything, so my eyes flood with tears and they slip down my face before I can turn away.
I don’t want Dorien to see my tears, but it’s too late. His demeanor immediately changes and now,now, he looks remorseful. He takes a step toward me and I instinctively take a step back.
“For what, specifically?” I say through the tears. “You don’t seem to be sorry about shit.”
His shoulders drop and he starts rambling, which is a very un-Dorien thing to do. “I’m sorry for unlocking your phone and reading the text without your permission. I’m really sorry for responding without asking you. I saw that you were upset and I had to know. I wasn’t thinking. I acted without thinking and I shouldn’t have done any of it.”
The words sound genuine and some of the tension in my stomach loosens. He keeps going.
“But I won’t pretend I’m sorry I saw the text, because it confirmed that someone is serious about hurting you. This isn’t just a prank or someone lashing out. It’s escalating. After class…” His words suddenly cut off and he’s staring into the trees again.
“What?”
“I couldn’t let it go. I ran some searches on the number. As much as I could.” He reaches for his right glove and pulls it off, working the leather free finger by finger, and the gesture is casual but it isn’t. Dorien’s gloves are his armor the way sarcasm is mine. Taking one off is a decision. “It looks like a burner phone because there’s no traceable owner.”
I stare at his bare hand and those long fingers. He’s got calluses on the palm from sculpting tools, and a thin scar across one knuckle. I’m so used to him wearing gloves that his hand looks vulnerable without them. Like he’s showing me a version of himself he never shows to anyone.
My anger is losing its footing because he didn’t just invade my privacy. He did but… he also wanted to help. He spent his own time trying to find whoever is hurting me, and the intersection of those two facts is so Dorien that the ache blooms in my throat, right where words get trapped.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
The fire in my voice has thinned so now only hushed tones remain. “You still should’ve asked.”
“I know.” He reaches toward my face and I flinch. His bare fingertips press against my cheek, just below my left eye. They linger there and brush away the drying tears. His lips move, barely, and I catch a word I don’t recognize. It sounds French. Then he says, “I don’t like seeing you cry. I don’t like causing it.”
My entire face is flushed and all I can focus on is the pressure of his bare fingers against my skin. I sniff. “I’d never cry because of you.”
“Yeah,” he says. The corner of his mouth twitches up. “Yeah. I guess not.”
His fingers are still on my cheek, and neither of us moves. It feels warm and slightly rough and I can feel my pulse thrumming under the touch, a single square inch of contact that sends a current down the side of my neck, across my collarbone, and into my heart. His eyes are that coppery hazel with the gray ring, and I’m close enough to see the flecks. There’s a moment where neither of us speaks and neither of us pulls away The space between us feels electric, terrifying, and entirely too small.
I don’t want any space between us. I want…
He drops his hand and steps away. He pulls his glove back on, finger by finger, and the leather swallows his skin. The moment is over.
My cheek will feel warm for days where he touched it.
“There’s something else.” His voice is lower now. He takes out his phone and turns the screen toward me. There’s a text from the same unknown number.
The message is aimed at him this time:Poor little rich boy. It’s clear Daddy’s money is the only reason you’re at Alaria. Your sculptures are trash. And you’re so oblivious it’s pathetic.
The anger inside me is back, just with a different target. “When did you get this?” I ask.
“Yesterday.”
I do the clenchy thing again and return his phone. “So they’re coming after both of us now. It seems they’ll eventually target everyone in the exhibition.”
“Looks like it.”
The panic in my chest starts to rise, but I bury it under the anger because anger is familiar. Anger I know how to hold. Fear just makes me feel small.
I turn away, toward the path back to our friends. “I can’t talk about this anymore.”
I can’t think with you so close and your touch lingering on my skin.
