Page 64 of Sweet Violence
The chair didn’t fit him properly either.
Too tall.
Too rigid.
His back curved forward to compensate, shoulders narrowing in, forcing him forward and drawn into the work whether he meant to be or not.
He never adjusted.
A thin line of irritation threaded through my bloodstream.
BecauseI knew.
I just knew he’d been doing shit like that his whole life—refusing to shift to make himself more comfortable.
I stayed in the doorway long enough to memorize the way his feet hovered just off the floor, absently swinging forward and back, softly tapping against the rung when it went too far.
It was long enough to feel something ugly and possessive settle in my throat.
I wanted him.
All of him.
Every inch. Every habit. Every quiet, unaware thing he offered up without defense.
I moved closer. The floor gave a quiet warning under my weight—just enough to pull his focus loose. His head lifted a second later, eyes catching on the movement before settling fully.
Recognition circled his wide eyes, and he grinned so big, his cheeks nearly touched his glasses. “Henry.”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“Rabbit,” I rasped, gravel dragging through the name. “I always know where you are.”
Archie shook in his seat, like my words affected every fiber that lined his body.
Made me feel like a fucking king.
The edge of the table pressed against the back of my thighs as I leaned in, settling onto the corner like the space belonged to me just because he was in it.
I scanned the spread in front of him. “What are you working on?”
“Um—” His hand moved instinctively, flattening one of the pages like he could organize the mess fast enough to make it make sense. “I was supposed to be finishing a comparative analysis for Lit Theory. Structuralist vs. post-structuralist interpretations of narrative voice.”
“And how’s that going?”
“I got distracted.”
He nudged one of the books forward, dragging the tip of his pinky finger along a line of text. My name sat in the center of the page, in fucking italics, wedged between people who’d built their careers out of pain.
“Very fancy of you, Professor. Your work quoted amongst the greats.”
“Am I not one of the greats?”
“Oh, to me, you’re the greatest.” A slow, lopsided smirk curled the corner of his mouth. “But I haven’t kissed any of the others, so I suppose I’m biased.”
My hand shot outward, fingers closing around his jaw before I thought about it.
