It begins today.
I stare at the stack of unread papers on my desk, all of the words blurring into meaningless shapes as I begin my silence. I was on the phone when he came in, and avoided an obligatory morning greeting, and have been quiet since.
Then tension between us is all consuming, like a boulder or massive stack of books pressing down on my chest. I can’t stop replaying us at my place, I can’t stop tasting his lips, feeling the hot spray of his cum between our bare chests. I can’t stop remembering his feral little groans and the way his eyes squeezed shut as he allowed himself finally to have what he truly wants.
Concentration is not my friend.
It doesn’t help that Cade sits feet away, his broad shoulders hunched over his laptop, typing with his usual intensity—focused and hot. Most days, his intensity makes my stomach flip. But after last night, it just makes me want to throw something at him.
Yesterday still burns in my throat. The words we didn’t say. The oneshewouldn’t let himself say. So today, I choose silence. Again, I’m aware it’s both petty and childish. But after weeks of this push-pull, this almost that never quite becomes something real, it’s all I have left.
He clears his throat. I don’t look up.
“Dr. Pratt sent out an update on the symposium,” he says, voice lined with the slightest little wobble, almost like he’s testing the waters.
I nod once, sharply, simply acknowledging he’s spoken but keep my eyes on my computer screen. My fingers fly over the keys, typing nonsense to Tara in a blank email, just to fill the void between me and him. The clock on the wall ticks aggressively loud. Every shift in his chair, every exhale, feels like an explosion in the quiet.
He tries again after an hour. “You want coffee? I’m heading to the cart by the library.”
Nothing. I don’t even glance his way. I hear him hesitate, that familiar pause where his body wants to move toward me but his brain yanks him back. That big fucking brain of his is always preventing him from acting from his heart and listening to his gut. He sighs, then the door clicks shut behind him.
Alone, I let out a breath. I hate ignoring him but more than that, I hate always being the one to drop the line. I’ve made my position pretty clear, and now it’s his turn. My hands tremble on the keyboard.
Day one of the silent treatment ends like that. A minefield of unspoken words and stolen glances I pretend (very hard) not to notice. By the time I pack up after my last lecture, my jaw aches from clenching it, and my gums are sore from grinding my teeth. Cade lingers at the doorway, waiting for me to go first like always. We walk together, until the great divide at the end of the hall, where he goestoward the gym or his car, and I go wherever, to slink off to think of him and those fucking glasses and that goddamn restraint.
But today, I brush past him without a word, close enough to smell his cologne—that stupid cedar-and-spice scent that haunts my cock. My shoulder grazes his arm. Electricity pops between us, sharp and painful. He doesn’t move away.
Neither do I, for half a second. But then I keep walking.
Day two is worsethan the first day of silence. Or better. Depends on how you look at things. I’m normally an optimist, but when it comes to Cade, every moment we can connect but don’t is agonizing. Torture. A waste of what I know we have.
I arrive early, determined to arrive at the office and get comfortable before him. But annoyingly, he’s already there. Cade doesn’t do anything halfway. His hair is still damp from his morning shower, blonde hair curved at the nape of his neck. I hate how my body reacts to the sight of him fresh from the shower, heat pooling low in my belly and groin, memories of that one night wafting back.
I ignore his morning greeting. I sit. I work. I ignore.
Cade starts humming under his breath around ten. Some old pop song we both like and discussed once on aSunday morning run. It’s deliberate. A hook cast into the silence. But I deserve more than that, so I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, and stay quiet.
Lunchtime. He orders takeout for two without asking if I brought my lunch, if I’m hungry or if I’m even going to eat today. He doesn’t just order food but orders my usual, the spicy Thai that makes my eyes water, that I love more than morning coffee and evening bourbon. The bag lands on my desk with a soft thud.
“Figured you hadn’t eaten,” he mutters.
I push it aside and pull out the gross, dry, awful protein bar I packed, the noise of the plastic wrapper so loud between us that it’s almost comical.Almost.I don’t even like this protein bar, and the Thai food smells amazing. Still, I chew off a bite of artificial cookie dough protein bar and take a swig of my water. His sigh is heavy enough to rattle the windows.
By afternoon, the tension is a living thing, coiled between our desks like a snake. He stands to stretch, arms overhead, shirt riding up to show that strip of tanned skin above his belt. I know he catches me looking. I know because his breath hitches.
I force my gaze back to my monitor, cheeks burning.Don’t you dare break first, Noah. Not this time.
I don’t, and neither does he. But later, when I leave at five, he follows me to the parking lot. “Noah.”
My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a curse. I climb into my car without responding, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth. In the rearview, hestands there watching me drive away, hands fisted at his sides.
I grip the wheel until my knuckles go white. Part of me wants to turn around. The rest of me knows that would be a mistake. He has to work harder than simply saying my name.
Daythree and I’m fraying at the edges.
The office feels intimate and hostile at once. When our hands brush reaching for the door, I jerk back but he lingers, fingers hovering where mine were.
“You planning on doing this forever?” he asks finally, voice cracking just enough to betray him, all of his feelings nearly tumbling to my feet in that single fissure of his composure.
