Page 32 of My Defiant Mate
A flush creeps up his neck, staining his cheeks. He still isn't used to my bluntness. "You like watching me unpack boring textbooks?"
"I like watching you exist in my space." I step closer, crowding him until his back is against the shelves. I catch his wrist, gently taking the book from his hand and setting it aside. "I like that your stuff smells like clean laundry and those weird lemon candies you're always eating. I like that my sheets are going to smell like both of us."
His flush deepens, but he doesn't look away. "It's a lot. Moving in together after only three weeks."
"It's not a lot." My voice drops. "It's not enough."
I lean in, pressing my nose to the sensitive skin of his neck. I breathe him in—that perfect scent that's become as necessary to me as oxygen. Clean linen, paper, and something uniquelyhim. Something that makes the constant, angry noise in my head go quiet.
"You smell like home," I say, my voice rough against his skin.
His breath catches. He grips my shoulders, not pushing me away, but holding on tight. "Jionni..."
"Hmm?" I let my lips brush the sensitive spot where his pulse jumps.
"We have to finish unpacking," he says, but his voice has gone breathy and soft. "We can't—"
"Can't we?" I grin against his neck, pulling back even though every instinct screams not to. "Fine. Unpack. But I'm watching you the whole time."
He laughs, a bright sound that fills the room. "Creep."
"Your creep," I grin, dropping onto my bed to keep my promise. I watch him resume his unpacking, his movements efficient and purposeful. It's like a weird new kink I've discovered—competence porn.
The sun through my window hits his face just right, catching in his dark eyes, turning his skin golden. It makes me itch for my guitar—that exact shade of gold has a sound, and I need to find it.
Three weeks ago, I would have laughed myself sick if someone told me I'd be this gone over the uptight RA from down the hall. Would've called them crazy. Would've sworn it would never be me. And part of me is still freaked out by how fast everything changed—but a bigger part knows I've found the missing piece I didn't know I was looking for.
"I think that's the last of it," Toby says, pushing the empty box aside. He surveys the room, hands on his hips. "It's... cozy."
I snort. "It's a shoebox with a bed."
"Our shoebox," he says softly, and the simple possessive makes something hot and solid settle in my chest.
He sits beside me on the bed, his weight dipping the mattress. His hands are clasped in his lap, his back straight. I can practically see the tension creeping back into his shoulders.
"What's wrong?" I ask, shifting to face him.
He takes a deep breath. "I need to call my parents."
Ah. The source of the tension. In all the chaos of the housing board and moving, he still hasn't told his parents about us. About the mate bond. About any of it.
"Okay," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Now?"
He nods, I watch his throat work on a swallow. "I've been putting it off, but... they should know. I'm living with you now. I'm..." he gestures vaguely between us, "...yours."
I feel a bolt of possessive pleasure shoot through me when he says that word. But I can see the fear behind his eyes, the desperate need for his parents to understand, to approve.
Three weeks ago, I would have scoffed at this need for approval. But now... now I find myself hoping desperately that his parents will love him enough to accept this. To acceptme.
I reach for his hand and lace our fingers together, feeling the nervous sweat on his palm as I run my thumb over his knuckles in slow circles.
"It'll be okay," I tell him, surprised by how much I mean it. "They love you."
He gives me a small, grateful smile and pulls out his phone. His thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before he hits the call button and puts it on speaker.
The phone rings three times before a woman's voice answers, warm and slightly accented. "Toby! I was just thinking about you. How are your classes?"
Toby's eyes meet mine, a silent plea for strength. I squeeze his hand.
