Page 17 of My Defiant Mate
"I don't know," I say honestly. "I just know that being away from you feels… wrong."
He turns his head, his gray eyes serious. "We're really doing this, aren't we?"
"I guess we are," I say, feeling both terrified and more certain than I've ever been about anything.
He smiles then, a real smile that transforms his face. "Good," he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Because I'm not letting you go, Toby Song-Gi. Not for Henderson, not for your job, not for anything."
His possessiveness should scare me. But all I feel is safe. Claimed. Like I've finally found what I didn't even know I was looking for.
We lie there in the quiet, our bodies cooling, still connected. I should get up. Go back to my room. I have reports to file. But I don't move. Instead, I let my head fall onto his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, and for the first time since I met him, the rules don't matter at all.
Jionni
Iwake up to the quiet rustle of paper.
For a second, I'm lost, my brain still thick with sleep. Then the morning light cuts a golden stripe across the floor, and I see him.
Toby's kneeling in that patch of sun, wearing my old, faded Radiohead t-shirt. It's huge on him, slipping off one shoulder to show the pale curve of his collarbone and the dark, purpling marks I put on his skin. His hair is a mess—not his usual perfect style, but rumpled and soft from my bed. From my hands.
And he's organizing my notes.
He hasn't seen me wake up. He's completely focused, sorting the disaster of papers and sheet music I leave in piles around my room. He's made neat stacks on the floor—Music Theory, Composition, Literature. His fingers move with this precise, careful way about them, like he's handling something precious instead of my coffee-stained bullshit.
Something inside me fuckingpurrs.
It's not just lust—though watching him move in my shirt, smelling like my bed, is doing things to my cock. It's deeper. That's my omega. In my space. Making it his.
"What are you doing?" My voice is rough with sleep.
He jumps, his head snapping up. "I—" He looks down at the papers in his hands, then back at me, and a flush creeps up his neck. "I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep, and your notes were… everywhere. I thought I'd help."
I should be pissed. I hate people touching my shit. But watching him, this uptight, rule-following RA, sitting on my floor in my t-shirt, trying to bring order to my chaos—it's the most adorable thing I've ever seen.
"Don't apologize." I push myself up on my elbows, the sheet pooling at my waist. "It's… nice."
"Nice?" He raises an eyebrow, like he doesn't believe me.
"Yeah." I run a hand through my hair. "Seeing you here. In my space. Making yourself at home."
His flush gets deeper, but he smiles, a small, private thing that makes my chest tight. "Your organizational system is a mess. How do you find anything?"
"I have one," I say, grinning. "It's called 'I know it's in here somewhere.'"
He laughs, a bright sound that cuts through the morning quiet. "That's not a system. It's a disaster."
"I like chaos."
"Clearly." He gestures to the room—clothes on chairs, books stacked everywhere, guitar picks on every surface.
I slide out of bed, naked, and cross the floor to him. His eyes follow me, darkening as he takes me in. I kneel beside him, getting right in his space, and take the papers from his hands.
"But I like this too," I say, setting the papers aside. I reach out, my fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. "You, bringing order to my mess."
He leans into my touch, his eyes closing for a second. "Someone has to."
I lean in, pressing my lips to the spot just below his ear. His pulse jumps against my mouth. "What time is your first class?"
"Ten," he breathes, tilting his head to give me better access. "Political Science."
