Chapter 7 Jionni
Jionni
Iwake up to the quiet rustle of paper.
For a second, I'm lost, my brain still thick with sleep. Then the morning light cuts a golden stripe across the floor, and I see him.
Toby's kneeling in that patch of sun, wearing my old, faded Radiohead t-shirt.
It's huge on him, slipping off one shoulder to show the pale curve of his collarbone and the dark, purpling marks I put on his skin.
His hair is a mess—not his usual perfect style, but rumpled and soft from my bed. From my hands.
And he's organizing my notes.
He hasn't seen me wake up. He's completely focused, sorting the disaster of papers and sheet music I leave in piles around my room.
He's made neat stacks on the floor—Music Theory, Composition, Literature.
His fingers move with this precise, careful way about them, like he's handling something precious instead of my coffee-stained bullshit.
Something inside me fucking purrs.
It's not just lust—though watching him move in my shirt, smelling like my bed, is doing things to my cock. It's deeper. That's my omega. In my space. Making it his.
"What are you doing?" My voice is rough with sleep.
He jumps, his head snapping up. "I—" He looks down at the papers in his hands, then back at me, and a flush creeps up his neck. "I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep, and your notes were… everywhere. I thought I'd help."
I should be pissed. I hate people touching my shit. But watching him, this uptight, rule-following RA, sitting on my floor in my t-shirt, trying to bring order to my chaos—it's the most adorable thing I've ever seen.
"Don't apologize." I push myself up on my elbows, the sheet pooling at my waist. "It's… nice."
"Nice?" He raises an eyebrow, like he doesn't believe me.
"Yeah." I run a hand through my hair. "Seeing you here. In my space. Making yourself at home."
His flush gets deeper, but he smiles, a small, private thing that makes my chest tight. "Your organizational system is a mess. How do you find anything?"
"I have one," I say, grinning. "It's called 'I know it's in here somewhere.'"
He laughs, a bright sound that cuts through the morning quiet. "That's not a system. It's a disaster."
"I like chaos."
"Clearly." He gestures to the room—clothes on chairs, books stacked everywhere, guitar picks on every surface.
I slide out of bed, naked, and cross the floor to him. His eyes follow me, darkening as he takes me in. I kneel beside him, getting right in his space, and take the papers from his hands.
"But I like this too," I say, setting the papers aside. I reach out, my fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. "You, bringing order to my mess."
He leans into my touch, his eyes closing for a second. "Someone has to."
I lean in, pressing my lips to the spot just below his ear. His pulse jumps against my mouth. "What time is your first class?"
"Ten," he breathes, tilting his head to give me better access. "Political Science."
Two hours. "Plenty of time, then."
His laugh turns into a gasp when I nip his earlobe. "For what?"
"Coffee." I pull back, grinning at the disappointment on his face. "And maybe breakfast. You need to eat."
He blinks, surprised. "Oh."
"What, did you think I was going to drag you back to bed?" I tease, tracing my thumb over his bottom lip. I tug the collar of my shirt back up over his shoulder, covering the mark there. It's not for anyone else to see. It's for me.
"The thought had crossed my mind," he says, his voice prim, but his eyes are hungry. It drives me crazy.
I stand, pulling him up with me. "Later," I promise, my voice dropping to a growl. "Right now, I need caffeine, and you need food."
His stomach growls, loud in the quiet room. He blushes, and I laugh.
"See? Food first, then I'll fuck you senseless."
"You're crude," he says, but there's no bite to it.
"You love it."
His eyes meet mine, and he looks soft and vulnerable. "Maybe I do."
His words hit me harder than I expect. I lean in and kiss him, softer than I meant to. When I pull back, he looks dazed, his lips slightly parted.
"Get dressed," I say, my voice rough. "The Daily Grind awaits."
***
The morning rush is over, so the line is short.
Toby walks beside me like he's in a minefield. His shoulders are tight, his eyes darting everywhere. Every time someone looks at us, he tenses.
"Relax," I murmur, my mouth close to his ear. "You look guilty as hell."
"I am guilty," he hisses back. "I didn't do my morning rounds. I'm wearing yesterday's clothes, for god's sake."
He's back in his own clothes, and even though he tried to smooth them out, they're still rumpled. My hoodie is tied around his waist, hiding the worst of it. But he's right. Toby always looks perfect. This disheveled version of him is a beacon announcing he got laid.
Shit. If Henderson sees him like this, if he puts it together with yesterday… Toby has every right to be nervous.
"Maybe we should be more careful," I say as we get to the front of the line. "At least until we figure out what to do about Henderson."
His head whips around, his eyes wide with surprise. "You're suggesting discretion? You?"
"I'm suggesting we don't give that asshole any ammunition," I clarify. "Not that we hide. Just… we play it smart."
Marcel clears his throat, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. "You two lovebirds gonna order, or just stand there making eyes at each other all day?"
Toby's face turns bright red. I grin.
"The usual for me," I say. "And a vanilla latte for him. And two of those chocolate croissants."
Marcel's gaze flicks between us. He takes a long, deliberate sniff of the air, then lets out a low whistle.
"Well, well," he says, his gruff voice full of amusement. "Fated, huh? Didn't see that coming."
"Is it that obvious?" Toby asks, his voice a mortified whisper.
Marcel barks a laugh. "Kid, you're practically glowing with it. And he—" he jerks his chin at me, "—looks like he's ready to fight anyone who looks at you wrong."
"Great," Toby mutters, looking like he wants to die.
"Relax," Marcel says, turning to the espresso machine. "No one else will notice. Most people around here are too wrapped up in their own bullshit."
I put my hand on the small of Toby's back, a steadying pressure. "See? It's fine."
"Henderson, though? That guy's got radar for this shit." He slides our drinks across the counter.
"You know Henderson?" Toby asks.
"Everyone who's been here more than a minute knows Henderson," Marcel says, wrapping our croissants. "He's been making students miserable for years." He hands me the food. "On the house today. Consider it a mating gift."
"Thanks, man," I say.
As we walk away, Toby's expression is thoughtful. "I've been thinking about something. I think the housing board might have policies about fated pairs. Accommodations."
"Yeah?" I wrap my arm around his shoulders. "Like what?"
"Like…" He hesitates. "Like allowing mated couples to live together. Or transferring an RA to a different building if their mate lives in their current one."
I stop, turning to face him. "You're saying there's a by-the-book way for us to be together without you losing your job?"
"Maybe." He chews on his lip. "I'd have to look into it. There's paperwork, approvals…"
"So we follow the rules," I say, the irony thick in my own voice. "We do it the right way."
His smile lights up his whole face, and something in me lights up too. "You'd do that? Go through official channels?"
"For you?" I tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "Yeah. I would."
The look on his face—that warm, tender surprise—makes my chest ache. I'm not used to this, to caring about what happens to someone else. But for him? I'd fill out a thousand forms.
"Jionni," he says, his voice soft.
"Don't make it a thing," I cut him off, suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm still a rebel at heart."
He laughs, light and free. "Of course you are."
We start walking again, shoulder to shoulder. It feels good. Right. Like maybe we can actually make this work.
"Come on," I say, taking his hand. "I want to show you something."
***
The music building is mostly empty this time of morning. I lead Toby to my favorite practice room at the end of the hall. The room wraps around us—soundproofed walls muffling the outside world, the smell of old wood and rosin, the battered upright piano waiting in the corner.
"What are we doing here?" he asks as I lock the door.
"This is the only place on campus that feels like mine." I grab my guitar case from where I'd left it yesterday. "I wanted to show you."
He sits on the piano bench, watching me.
"I've been working on something," I say, feeling strangely exposed. "A new piece."
"I'd love to hear it," he says, his voice soft.
I sit across from him, the worn neck of my guitar fitting perfectly in my palm. I close my eyes and play. The music starts low, searching. It's full of tension, of chords that don't quite resolve. It's the sound of the angry noise that's always been in my head.
Then it changes. A new theme comes in, clear and sure. The chaos finds an order. The static becomes a single, perfect note.
When I open my eyes, Toby is watching me, his face raw. There are tears in his eyes.
"That's…" He swallows. "That's beautiful."
"It's you," I say. "It's what happened when I met you."
He stands and crosses the space between us. I set my guitar aside. His hands frame my face, and he kisses me—deep and slow and full of emotion.
"No one's ever…" He breaks off, his voice thick. "No one's ever made something for me before."
Seeing him so vulnerable makes my chest tight. I stand, my hands finding his waist, pulling him closer. "You inspire me," I say, knowing it's not enough. "You make me want to create. To be better."
His breath hitches. "Jionni…"