Page 22 of My Defiant Mate
"So? You're an RA. He probably wants to talk about some dumb policy thing."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. But the sick certainty coiling in my gut tells a different story. This isn't about policy. This is about punishment.
"Maybe," I say, unable to meet his eyes. I stare at a crack in the sidewalk instead, focusing on its jagged, meaningless line.
Jionni's fingers find my chin, gentle but firm, tilting my face up until I have no choice but to look at him. His eyes are intense, searching mine. "Hey. It's going to be fine."
"You don't know that."
"I do." He sounds so certain. So unshakably confident. It's one of the things I love about him, and right now, it feels like a lie. "And if he tries anything, I'll—"
"You'll what?" I pull away, anxiety making my voice sharp and brittle. "Make it worse? This isn't something you can fix by being... you."
He flinches, a barely perceptible tightening of his jaw, but I see it. It's like I slapped him. The guilt is immediate and suffocating.
"I'm sorry," I say, reaching for his hand again. The skin is warm, real. "I'm just stressed. I should go. I can't be late."
Jionni nods, his expression guarded now, the easy confidence gone. "Text me after?"
"I will." I squeeze his hand once, a desperate, silent apology, then let go. "I'll see you later."
As I walk away, I can feel his eyes on my back. I don't turn around. I can't. If I look at him again, at the worry that's replaced his arrogance, I might not have the strength to walk into whatever trap Henderson has set.
The housing office is in the administrative building, a squat, brutalist concrete structure that always makes me think of a prison. Fitting, considering I'm walking to my own execution.
Every step feels heavier than the last. My mind starts to spin, grabbing at possibilities, each one worse than the last.
Maybe it's a routine check-in. Maybe he wants to lecture me again.
Maybe someone else violated quiet hours and he's blaming me for not catching it.
Maybe he doesn't know anything. Maybe this is a coincidence.
But deep down, I know. He knows. About Jionni. About us. About the locked practice room and the rumpled clothes and the bite mark I can still feel throbbing on my neck.
I pass a group of freshmen sprawled on the grass, laughing about something on someone's phone. They look so carefree. So normal. I envy them with a sudden, sharp ache. When was the last time I felt that unburdened?
Before I met him?
But even as I think it, I know it's not true. I wasn't unburdened before Jionni. I was… empty. Checking every box. Following every rule. Being the perfect son, the perfect RA, the perfect machine.
Perfect and hollow.
The housing office smells like old coffee and burnt copy paper. The receptionist, a woman with tired eyes and a permanent frown, barely looks up from her computer when I enter.
"Song-Gi?" she asks, her voice flat. She's already reaching for the phone. "He's expecting you."
Of course he is.
Henderson's office is at the end of a short, windowless hallway. The door is ajar, but I knock anyway.
"Enter," comes his thin, reedy voice.
I push the door open and step inside. Henderson is standing behind his desk, not sitting. It's a power move, forcing me to look up at him like a supplicant. His office is exactly what I'd expect—sterile, gray, with not a single personal touch. No photos of family. No plants. Just a desk, a chair, and a locked filingcabinet. The only decoration is his framed master's degree in Educational Administration hanging on the wall, perfectly level.
"Mr. Song-Gi," he says, not offering me a seat. "Thank you for coming so promptly."
"Of course, sir." My voice comes out steady. Professional. It's a miracle, considering my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.
