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I know he’s my teacher.
I know lines have blurred.
And I know this is fucked up.
But I want him. I want him so fucking bad.
I side-eye the clock on the wall. It’s 9 p.m. and I know he’s probably out with her having dinner as we speak. Despite not being allowed in here at night, Mr. Stiles understands my needfor this place and provided me with the code to enter when it’s locked.
Thank God, he did. I wanted so badly to call Lan and get lost in him tonight. But I hate the fact that even the thought of touching another guy makes me feel sick. What the fuck has this man done to me? I’ve become an obsessed little boy who has a crush on his teacher.
Fuck, no. I beat the bag until my knuckles bleed.
I didn’t wrap my hands.
I wanted to feel the pain.
I wanted to see the blood.
It’s not enough.
I pause, reach into my bag, take out my phone, and send a text to Lan. Telling him to be at my dorm in fifteen. I need more, this isn’t enough.
As I grab my bag and head for the doors, they suddenly open.
There he stands.
We both come to an abrupt stop. I observe his smart black shirt, buttoned up, and his matching black jeans. His disheveled hair, appearing as though someone had raked their fingers through it, causes my jaw to clench. Most likely Ms. Banksy. He looks wrecked or is this his freshly fucked appearance?
His eyes wander over me, taking in my appearance before becoming fixated on my hands covered in blood. His eyes turn fierce, and he quickly approaches me.
He comes to a halt in front of me, gripping my free hand, and exclaims, “What the hell did you do?” I quickly withdraw my hand from his grasp. I don’t want his hands on me, especially after touching someone else.
“Nothing.” I pass by him and begin making my way toward the doors.
“Why are you here?” he questions.
I stop and turn on my heels abruptly. “Why am I here? Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be on your date?” I raise an eyebrow at him. He opens his mouth, but quickly shuts it, causing me to chuckle sarcastically before I turn around. I make it to the doors, but I don’t make it through as the next words stop me.
“I didn’t go.” Exhaustion is clear in his barely audible voice. He didn’t go. I feel a warmth spreading through me as my stomach churns. Three words are all it takes to wash away the anger and rage within me.I didn’t go.
“Why?” I stay facing the doors, needing to know why he didn’t go. If it’s because she canceled, I’ll leave and never think about that man again.
Lies, but OK.
“Why do you think, Brayden?” He chuckles as if it’s clearly obvious. “Look at me.” I pause for a moment. His soft voice pleads, “Brayden, please,” shattering my heart. “Please look at me, Bray.” The nicknameBraymelts something within me. Slowly, I turn toward him, avoiding direct eye contact with him initially. Nervously, I avert my gaze downward.
His voice, shattered and weak, utters, “Bray.”
I glance up. In that moment, our eyes lock, and it feels as if an invisible wall between us crumbles. Finally allowing us to be vulnerable and connected with nothing standing in our way.
“You,” he says.
“Me?”
“Yes. You. You’re the reason I didn’t go on the date.”
“Why.” I need to hear him say it. I need to know it’s not just in my fucked up mind. I am certain of his feelings toward me, but I need to hear it from him directly. I stand frozen in place as he approaches me, watching his slow advance. Despite the dim lighting in the studio, I can see his face and the hunger in his eyes as he moves closer to me. My heart quickens and I gulp, struggling to catch my breath through my nose.
