[Editing]

"Getting comfortable."

One arm slid around my waist to keep me in place as the other curled beneath my thighs. Then he dipped his head toward my neck, and strands of his hair brushed the edge of my ear.

I froze.

His warm breath skimmed across my skin, igniting tiny fires in places I hadn't known could burn.

"I read somewhere physical touch enhances memory," he murmured, his lips far too close. "So really, this is for academic purposes."

I blinked, staring in disbelief at the hand now resting boldly on my thigh.

I was speechless. Open-mouthed. Caught somewhere between blushing and committing murder.

"Unbelievable," I muttered under my breath.

I pushed lightly at his arm, trying to get up, but he didn't budge. His grip wasn't tight, just steady. Like he knew I wouldn't really fight him. Like he knew me.

"Wallace—"

He reached up and gently pressed a finger to my lips, silencing me. Then, without a word, he picked up the workbook from the table and placed it in my lap.

My brain, however, had short-circuited into static.

"Are you going to teach me or not?" he asked, that maddening smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I shot him a glare as the heat rushed to my cheeks. He saw it—of course he did. My face might as well have been on fire.

"Fine by me," he added with a shrug, still watching me with that same teasing glint that made me want to both slap and kiss him.

No. Get it together, Desiree.

I tried to slide off his lap again, squirming subtly, but his arm didn't move.

Pressing my lips into a hard line, I inhaled through my nose and let it out slowly.

There was no winning this. So I stayed—resigned, trying to make peace with the impossible proximity.

I adjusted my posture instead, shifting carefully to lean less into his chest, angling my legs outward so I didn't feel so tangled up in him. But the second I moved, I heard him groan low under his breath.

"Fuck's sake."

I blinked, then turned my head slowly to glare at him. "Did you just swear at me?"

"No," he said, too quickly, clearing his throat. "Just... pick a question. Any question. Preferably one that doesn't involve moving."

The audacity.

Still, I huffed and flipped the page, pretending to ignore him, though my fingers trembled slightly as I skimmed for the next set of problems.

"Okay," I said, forcing my voice steady. "Let's go over this one and circle back to the last later."

He nodded and leaned forward to reach the table and scribble out an answer. His chest brushed my shoulder again, making me gasp.

That was it.

I started to rise again, exasperated.

"Des, stop moving." His voice dropped—lower, firmer.

And when I turned to shoot him another glare, I found his face inches from mine.

Too close.

His breath touched my skin, warm and slow. And like the first time he'd been this near, I could see everything in startling clarity. The shimmer in his deep blue eyes that caught the fading afternoon light, the way his lashes curled dark and thick, the faint scar above his brow, and—

His lips.

The same lips that kissed me that day.

𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𓂃 𓈒⚝

"Do I..." Wallace whispered again, his voice dropping to a near-inaudible rasp that sent goosebumps racing across my skin. "Have permission to kiss you?"

I froze, my gaze locked on his mouth, my mind spinning wildly between fear and want. And then, as though possessed by something greater than myself, I gave the smallest nod.

"Words, my desire," Wallace breathed, the soft, velvety edge in his tone sending a thrill down my spine. "Use your words."

⚝𓈒𓂃𝐄𝐍𝐃

My heart beat impossibly fast.

The air between us grew quieter than quiet.

And for a second, I forgot what came after equations and timelines and rules. All I could register was how close he was. The warmth of his breath. The sudden stillness in both of us.

And how dangerously easy it was to forget everything else.

Just as Wallace began to lean in, the door creaked open.

A tiny shriek cut through the silence like a pebble tossed into a still lake.

"What are you doing to her?!"

We both turned, startled.

Winston stood in the doorway, pointing an accusing finger at his brother, his brows drawn together in fierce disapproval.

I scrambled to my feet too quickly, bumping Wallace's chin with my shoulder on the way up.

"Ow," he muttered, rubbing his jaw in silence.

"Nothing!" I half-blurted, nearly tripping over my own voice. "Winston—hey..."

He didn't budge. His small face was set in that rare mixture of suspicion and confusion.

I crouched down in front of him, trying to meet his eyes. His frown softened slightly.

"Did you need anything?" I asked, gentler now.

"I was..." Winston looked down at his socked feet, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "I just wanted to ask if you could stay for dinner?"

His voice was quieter this time, almost sheepish.

I blinked. The question caught me off guard.

Before I could answer, he added quickly, "Oh—won't you stay? I promise to share my chicken nuggets with you."

My lips parted, and before I could stop it, a smile bloomed across my face. Those big, solemn eyes peered up at me with such earnestness, it nearly cracked my heart open.

"I'd love to, Winston. Thank you for inviting me."

His little shoulders relaxed. He exhaled visibly and gave me the shyest smile—one he tried and failed to hide behind his hand.

"What did you say?"

The sudden sharpness in Wallace's voice made both Winston and me jump.

We turned to see him standing near the desk, his phone pressed to his ear, brows furrowed, mouth slightly open. He wasn't looking at us.

Winston glanced at me, confused. I mirrored the look and shrugged.

Wallace reached for his puffer jacket, his movements fast.

"Yeah, I'll go... K, bye."

He hung up, already slipping one arm through his sleeve when I stepped forward.

"Wait—you're going?" My voice rose before I could stop it.

We hadn't even finished the session...

"Where are you going?" Winston echoed, concern creeping into his small voice.

Wallace didn't answer right away. He just ruffled Winston's hair in passing.

"Sorry, bro. Let's have dinner together next time, 'kay?"

Winston swatted his hand away with an unimpressed glare.

"Des." Wallace said, turning to me. "Do you mind eating with him tonight?"

I looked down at Winston, whose arms were now crossed tightly, his small face pinched with quiet disappointment.

My chest tugged at the sight.

"No, I don't mind," I said softly. Then I added, "But... did something happen?"

Wallace's jaw tensed slightly. "Yeah. Something's wrong with Audrey. Someone posted something on the school forum. I'm going there to talk to them."

Audrey.

I tried not to let my face falter. Tried not to let the heaviness that always came with her name settle on my spine.

"Oh..." It was all I managed. What was I supposed to say? Hope she's okay?

"I'm going now." He turned to Winston. "I'll be back."

"Fine. Leave. I don't care," Winston muttered, spinning away with his arms still crossed.

Wallace winced at that. Then he looked at me one last time, quieter now. "I'll be back, Des."

I just nodded.

And then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him—and with it, the warmth in the room seemed to go too.

I crouched down to Winston's level again, forcing a cheerful smile, though it barely reached my eyes.

"How about you show me around your house while we wait for dinner? Is that okay?"

He gave a short nod, but the corners of his mouth stayed downturned. The sadness in his eyes was unmistakable. He hadn't just wanted dinner, he'd wanted time. Connection.

Seeing that reflection of disappointment mirrored back at me made my forced smile melt into something much closer to his.

"Come on," I whispered, reaching for his hand.

As he led me down the hallway, quiet and dragging his feet, I cast one last glance over my shoulder toward the door Wallace had vanished through.

Whatever the reason, Wallace... it better be good.

Because if you left your brother for some stupid reason?

Your days are numbered.

๋࣭ °࣪ ִ⭑․𓃠⭒˚.• ݁

We ended up in a small reading nook tucked behind the library, hidden behind a curtain of deep green velvet.

Afternoon sunlight filtered through a slanted window above, casting golden shafts onto the shelves that towered around us. In the center was a beanbag chair, half-sunken into a thick, tasseled rug.

For the next twenty minutes or so, Winston and I bent over his assignments, sprawled on the rug. I guided him through an English worksheet where he had written about his favorite animal.

"Why a narwhal?" I asked, nudging him gently with my elbow.

He shrugged with a sheepish grin. "'Cause it looks like a unicorn but swims."

I laughed softly.

We finished the last question just as the sun began to dip outside the window. Winston let out a yawn and leaned against me without hesitation.

"You promised," he murmured, reminding me of our deal.

"I did."

He wriggled around in the pillows and pulled out a picture book with a worn cover—The Littlest Dragon.

"This one's my favorite," he said proudly, holding it up like a trophy. "I already read it seven whole times."

"Seven times?" I said, pretending to be shocked.

He giggled, scooting closer. "I like the dragon. He's scared to fly at first, but then he does it anyway. And he saves the day."

I looked at the cover, which showed a tiny blue dragon smiling shyly beneath a moonlit sky.

"That's a pretty brave dragon."

"We can take turns," Winston offered, flipping to the first page and pointing to the words. "I'll go first."

And so we did. Page by page, sentence by sentence, switching voices and adding sound effects that made him giggle uncontrollably.

Every so often, he'd interrupt the story to tell me what was going to happen next, like he couldn't help it. He knew every twist already, but it didn't matter. He was just happy to share it.

At some point, as I turned the page, I noticed the weight of him had shifted. His head now rested against my arm, his small fingers still curled around a corner of the book.

He had fallen asleep.

I stayed perfectly still, not daring to move or shift, afraid I'd wake him or break the peaceful moment that had settled like a fragile spell over the room.

A moment later, the library door creaked open and Margaret Aldridge appeared, still dressed from work—her blazer unbuttoned, scarf lopsided. She looked tired as her gaze swept the room before landing on us.

Her eyes widened slightly.

"Oh, hi," she whispered, a hand rising to her chest. "You're here, dear." Then her gaze dropped to the little boy curled beside me, lips parted in sleep. "He... fell asleep?"

I nodded gently.

"Hi, Margaret. We were reading. He didn't even make it halfway through the chapter."

Margaret stepped closer, her expression softening into something warm and fragile—like she hadn't expected tenderness today and didn't quite know what to do with it.

"He's never done that before," she murmured. "Not even with his father."

She knelt beside us. Her hands hovered for a moment before she gently lifted Winston into her arms.

He stirred only once—mumbling something about dragons and "no broccoli at the feast"—then tucked his head against her shoulder.

I followed quietly as she carried him to his room, where Margaret tucked him in with gentle care, brushing a stray curl from his forehead before she tugged the blanket up to his chin.

She didn't speak right away. Just watched him. Then she stood and turned to me.

I smiled faintly as we stepped into the hallway, closing the door softly behind us.

"Thank you," she said, her voice low. "For spending time with him. Winston doesn't let people in easily. Not anymore. Not since his brother left."

"I didn't do much," I murmured.

Margaret smiled. "It still means everything. I haven't seen him relax like that in... months." Her voice wavered on the last word. "To be honest, it startled me. Like I'd forgotten what it's like to see him just... be a child."

A quiet ache bloomed in my chest. I was glad I'd helped. But the fact that it had meant this much—that his mother could barely recognize her son as carefree—made the joy feel like it was stitched through with something heavier.

I thought of Wallace then. How he'd been gone for six months, disappearing into a world far from this house, far from his brother. Running from it all.

Margaret glanced toward the hallway. "Is Wallace in his room?"

I shook my head. "He had an emergency. He asked me to have dinner with Winston."

Her brows lifted, surprise softening her face. "He invited you?"

I nodded.

She blinked, absorbing that. Then her expression flickered.

"What kind of emergency makes a boy skip dinner with his guest?" she muttered, mostly to herself. But her smile returned quickly. "No matter. I'll cook something special for you."

"I'd love to help, if that's okay."

"Of course, dear," she said warmly, already leading the way. "Come on."

...

𓇢𓆸

ᴍᴇʟᴏᴅʏꜱʜʜʜ