Page 43 of Deafened By Silence
“The fuck were you thinking,” Rhys mutters amongst a string of other curses. I quickly come to the conclusion he doesn’t know I can hear him. “You’re not allowed to harm what’s mine. You’re mine, you stupid, beautiful idiot. Only I get to hurt you.” The murmuring goes on and on, so much so that Clay ignores it.
Clay’s chest cages my back, the steady thud of his heart pulsing against my spine. His fingers are splayed over my arms, gripping me as if I might slip free. Eventually, the raining of explosions settles down and I catch the exact moment Clay and Rhys look at each other and realize what they’ve just done. They came for me, acting purely on instinct. No glares, no insults, no searing hatred.
Similarly to earlier, I’m caged between them, but it’s oh so different. Instead of being suffocated, a stillness settles. Even the images of my past hover outside of our huddle, my focus centered on Rhys’ thumb smearing my tears away. He holds me reverently, allowing the three of us a moment free of the cocky bullshit to simplybe.
If these two stubborn, volatile men can forget their hatred long enough to protect me, possibly there is a chance. A tiny, impossible glimmer of a future that doesn’t have to be this endless battlefield. Maybe I am not a prize or a distraction, but something worth shielding.
I clutch to Clayton, Rhys and that thought with trembling fingers, letting it warm the cold pit inside me, even as the fire alarm begins to wail overhead.
Chapter Twenty Six
After the demise of Peterson’s lab, I hadn’t expected Harper to take me up on my offer of study sessions. I actually thought she’d shun me, choosing to sit elsewhere in our classes, thoroughly done with the macho bullshit I can’t seem to contain. Yet she’s been taking her seat beside me each day and she’s been at the library every night all week without fail, seven on the dot like clockwork.
Surprisingly, Rhys took all of the heat for Monday’s fight and explosion. Dean O’Sullivan came down on him hard, but apparently not as hard as his father. Demanding Rhys work off his recklessness through manual labor, he’s been helping to clear out the lab, one shard of glass and piece of splintered wood at a time. I caught sight of him crossing the quad with a paint can in hand, his usually manicured hands covered in lacerations, and thankfully that’s the only time I’ve seen him. It’s been a blissful reprieve for Harper and me to meet up without any interference.
Waiting at the same table as always, Harper has two cups of coffee and a wide smile at the ready, as though she’s carved a space in time just for me. I’m getting better at returning thatsmile without instinctively angling my head downwards, and she has definitely noticed.
Tonight, she's wrapped in a ridiculous wearable blanket that swallows her whole in a mass of fluffy gray sleeves. Her hair is loose, soft waves catching the library lights, deep rose blending into the lighter pink at the ends.
Even if I wanted to tell her how the color suits the frame of her face or makes her features appear much softer, I wouldn’t know how to put it into words. I categorically cannot tell her how her hair has become a fixture in my dreams, scattered over my chest or brushing against my cheek, often waking me with painfully-hard morning wood.
Setting in for another evening of caffeine and flicked pages, Harper draws her index finger from her ear to her mouth, signing that she currently can’t hear. She holds out her hand and I pass over my textbook. We always start like this, Harper cross-checking her notes with mine, making sure she hasn’t missed anything or filling in the blanks when Hargreaves mutters too quietly for her mic to pick up. She dives straight in, her fingers drumming along the edge of the page until it’s time to turn it.
I unpack my bag, putting two packs of cookies between us as subtly as I can. Regardless, my cheeks flame when her green eyes flick up, and I shrug it off. My latest scholarship payment actually came through on time, so I figured it’s time to repay the endless coffee she’s supplying us. No big deal. I absolutely did not spend twenty minutes staring at the shelves, trying to decide if hazelnut or oatmeal raisin would be best. In the end, I just bought both and left the store in a huff. One day, I won’t overanalyze simple decisions. Today is not that day.
Opening my folder, I pick up where I left off editing my thesis. These sessions were meant to be me teaching Harper, yet she devoured the first draft I sent over and handed it backmarked with notes and corrections. She’s smart. Really smart on paper, that is. Some of her life choices are questionable.
Every so often, I glance over, possibly to remind myself she’s still there. Still softly humming to herself, still becoming comfortable in my icy presence. I’ve never been one for small talk, and Harper doesn’t care for it. Too many words to decipher from my lips when she’s trying to focus on studying.
The library hums around us, packed as usual, students crammed shoulder to shoulder, laptops clattering, groans of defeat leaking into the air like smoke. I’m not sure how Harper always manages to secure this same table, claiming it as our spot right in the middle.
I work through her suggestions, removing post-it notes as I go, swiftly making the necessary changes and finishing up around the same time she thumps the textbook back onto the table. Without asking, she reaches over for my folder, collecting the snacks on the way. Harper nibbles on the oatmeal cookie, reading over my corrections.
The sound is barely audible, just the faintest crunch, but it hits me low in the gut. Her lips curve around the bite, her tongue darting out to swipe a crumb from the corner, and suddenly I’m choking on air. My body tightens, blood rushing south before I can stop it.
I shift in my chair, dragging my thighs wider, rearranging the front of my trousers under the table like I’m some teenage idiot who’s never been this close to a girl before. Except this isn’t justa girl. This is Harper. And she’s so utterly oblivious to the mess she’s making of me, licking sugar from her fingertip as if it isn’t the filthiest thing I’ve ever seen. Three guesses what tonight’s dreams will include. Harper in a tiny pinstripe outfit, standing in the door of a gingerbread house and beckoning me inside.
My cock jumps and I lean my forehead on my closed fist. Stop it Clayton, you’re just riling yourself up in public. I force myeyes to chase a scratch on the table over and over, staring at the groove until my rising temperature finally starts to settle. When I’m somewhat under control, I look over to the scrawled notes Harper is making in the margins. She’s using my pen, which raises to her mouth and tugs against her bottom lip, drawing it down.
Christ.
She must know what she’s doing. No one can be that hot by accident. All I can see in my head is her mouth occupied with something else, and my pulse kicks hard enough to hurt. If she happens to look up right now, she’ll see every unholy thought stamped across my pinched face. I tug on my beanie, pulling it further down my forehead.
I shouldn’t want her this much. Shouldn’t need her attention like a starving man begging for scraps. She’s…my friend? Maybe? Or in the very least, she’s someone I should be protecting from everything, including myself, but I want more. More of her time, her smiles, the little frown she makes when she concentrates. More of her correcting me, teasing me, scolding me until I earn her approval. More of her sitting across from me, unaware she’s the only thing I care to learn anymore.
I want all of her. And that terrifies me more than the hunger clawing through my chest.
“Oh Clay,” Harper breathes and I fight against a groan. She really can’t say my name like that in public. Placing my folder down, Harper blinks a few times, tears collecting in her eyes. Like a bucket of ice water to my dick, I shoot upright in my seat.
“What’s wrong? Was it really that bad?” I frown. Holy crap, my thesis is a complete car crash and she’s just been humoring me this whole time. Harper wipes her eye and shakes her head. She digs out a microphone clip and signals for me to clip to my collar.
“It’s incredible, Clay, honestly.” Harper lowers her voice, cautious of those nearby. She knows I don’t like praise, especially out in the open, but she also knows the subject of my thesis is extremely personal. After all, I used my mom’s case file to back up my reasoning. Harper passes the folder over and I stare down at the text.Molecular Insights into Dementia: From Mechanisms to Therapeutic Interventions.
“Thank you,” I mutter back, withholding the rest of what I should have said. I want to thank her, not just for the proofreading, but for not asking questions. For not treating me any different once I’d plucked up the courage to share a part of my past with her. I think I was desperate to let someone in, and here she is. Present, attentive and consistent. Harper opens her laptop, clearing her throat and digging out a small smile.
“You’ve inspired me to write about something personal too. I started my own thesis last night.” Tilting her screen toward me like she expected me to be nosy, I read the title sitting bold at the top of her blank document.Human stem cell regeneration and the advancement of regenerative medicines.
“You didn’t get very far,” I manage to smirk, feeling the weight of the world lift from my shoulders. Harper reaches over and playfully slaps my bicep, and I chuckle. Actually chuckle in a room full of people. A few heads turn our way, just as unfamiliar with the noise as I am.
