Page 19 of My Defiant Mate
Marcel barks a laugh. "Kid, you're practically glowing with it. And he—" he jerks his chin at me, "—looks like he's ready to fight anyone who looks at you wrong."
"Great," Toby mutters, looking like he wants to die.
"Relax," Marcel says, turning to the espresso machine. "No one else will notice. Most people around here are too wrapped up in their own bullshit."
I put my hand on the small of Toby's back, a steadying pressure. "See? It's fine."
"Henderson, though? That guy's got radar for this shit." He slides our drinks across the counter.
"You know Henderson?" Toby asks.
"Everyone who's been here more than a minute knows Henderson," Marcel says, wrapping our croissants. "He's been making students miserable for years." He hands me the food. "On the house today. Consider it a mating gift."
"Thanks, man," I say.
As we walk away, Toby's expression is thoughtful. "I've been thinking about something. I think the housing board might have policies about fated pairs. Accommodations."
"Yeah?" I wrap my arm around his shoulders. "Like what?"
"Like…" He hesitates. "Like allowing mated couples to live together. Or transferring an RA to a different building if their mate lives in their current one."
I stop, turning to face him. "You're saying there's a by-the-book way for us to be together without you losing your job?"
"Maybe." He chews on his lip. "I'd have to look into it. There's paperwork, approvals…"
"So we follow the rules," I say, the irony thick in my own voice. "We do it the right way."
His smile lights up his whole face, and something in me lights up too. "You'd do that? Go through official channels?"
"For you?" I tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "Yeah. I would."
The look on his face—that warm, tender surprise—makes my chest ache. I'm not used to this, to caring about what happens to someone else. But for him? I'd fill out a thousand forms.
"Jionni," he says, his voice soft.
"Don't make it a thing," I cut him off, suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm still a rebel at heart."
He laughs, light and free. "Of course you are."
We start walking again, shoulder to shoulder. It feels good. Right. Like maybe we can actually make this work.
"Come on," I say, taking his hand. "I want to show you something."
***
The music building is mostly empty this time of morning. I lead Toby to my favorite practice room at the end of the hall. The room wraps around us—soundproofed walls muffling the outside world, the smell of old wood and rosin, the battered upright piano waiting in the corner.
"What are we doing here?" he asks as I lock the door.
"This is the only place on campus that feels like mine." I grab my guitar case from where I'd left it yesterday. "I wanted to show you."
He sits on the piano bench, watching me.
"I've been working on something," I say, feeling strangely exposed. "A new piece."
"I'd love to hear it," he says, his voice soft.
I sit across from him, the worn neck of my guitar fitting perfectly in my palm. I close my eyes and play. The music starts low, searching. It's full of tension, of chords that don't quite resolve. It's the sound of the angry noise that's always been in my head.
