Chapter 11 Jionni
Jionni
Three Weeks Later
"Lift with your knees, not your back," Toby says, his voice crisp even though he's wrestling a box labeled 'Poli-Sci: Foundational Texts' through my doorway.
"Yes, Resident Advisor Song-Gi," I mock, grabbing the other end. It weighs a fucking ton. "Jesus, what's in here? Bodies?"
"Books." He rolls his eyes, but his mouth quirks up at one corner. That little almost-smile still does things to me. "Some of us read things that aren't guitar tabs."
"I read," I protest, helping him heave the box onto the desk. My desk. Our desk. "I read... stuff."
"The back of cereal boxes doesn't count."
We set it down with a thud that makes my cheap particleboard desk groan.
Toby doesn't waste a second. He starts unpacking, pulling out thick hardcovers with titles like Democratic Theory and Practice.
He moves like he's got a plan for every book, bringing his perfect order to my mess, one textbook at a time.
I should be annoyed. Three weeks ago, I would have been. My room has always been my sanctuary, my private chaos. I've never wanted anyone else's fingerprints on my life.
But watching him arrange his books on my shelf, seeing his color-coded planner next to my amp, his perfectly folded sweaters sitting beside my pile of band tees—a warmth spreads through my chest, a bone-deep satisfaction I wasn't expecting.
This isn't just my room anymore. It's ours. The start of our territory.
Toby pauses with a book in hand. "What? You're staring."
"I like watching you. I like seeing you here."
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 uniquely him. 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 accept me.
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.
"Hi, Mom," he says, his voice surprisingly steady. "Classes are good. Um, actually, I'm calling because I have some news."
"News?" There's a rustling sound, then his mother's voice calls out, "Ton! Toby's on the phone. He has news."
A deeper voice joins in. "What kind of news? Good news?"
Toby's hand tightens around mine. "Yes, Dad. Good news. At least, I think it's good news. I hope you'll think so too."
"Well, don't keep us in suspense," his mother says, a smile in her voice.
Toby takes a deep breath. "I met someone. Someone... important."
There's a beat of silence. Then his mother's voice, cautious but warm: "A special someone?"
"Yes," Toby says. "Very special. His name is Jionni. He's... he's my mate."
Another silence, longer this time. I feel Toby's whole body tense beside me, preparing for the blow.
Then his father's voice, gruff but not unkind: "Your mate? You're sure?"
"Yes," Toby says, his voice growing stronger. "I'm sure. We both are."
"Oh, Toby," his mother breathes, and I can hear the tears in her voice. "That's wonderful! When can we meet him?"
Toby practically melts next to me, like someone cut all his strings at once. His shoulders drop, his spine curves, and his face—God, his face. The tight lines of worry melt away, replaced by a relief so profound it brings tears to his eyes.
"You're... you're not upset?" he asks, his voice thick.
"Upset?" his mother sounds genuinely confused. "Why would we be upset?"
"Because it's so sudden," Toby says. "Because it complicates things. Because I had to transfer buildings and—"
"Toby," his father interrupts, gentle but firm. "We've never wanted you to be perfect. We've only ever wanted you to be happy."
A tear slips down Toby's cheek. I reach up, brushing it away with my thumb.
"And this Jionni," his mother continues, "he makes you happy?"
Toby looks at me, his dark eyes shining with emotion. "Yes," he says simply. "He does."
"Then that's all that matters," his father says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Tell us about him," his mother urges. "What's he studying? What's he like?"
Toby laughs, a wet, relieved sound. "He's a music major. He plays guitar. He's... he's right here, actually."
"He is?" His mother's voice rises with excitement. "Put him on!"
Toby holds the phone out to me, a silent question in his eyes. I nod, taking it from him.
"Hello, Mrs. Song-Gi," I say, aiming for polite but probably landing somewhere closer to awkward. "It's nice to meet you. Sort of."
"Oh, call me Hana, please," she says warmly. "And you must call my husband Ton. We're family now."
Family. A word I only knew as a weapon. And they were just... handing it to me, no strings attached. It left me speechless, my throat tight with something I couldn't name.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice rougher than I intended. "That means a lot."
"So, Jionni," Ton's voice takes over, "what are your intentions with our son?"
"Dad!" Toby protests, mortified.
I laugh, surprised by how easily it comes. "It's okay," I murmur to Toby, then look back toward the phone to answer his father. "My intentions are simple. I'm going to spend the rest of my life making him happy."
There's a moment of silence, then Ton grunts in approval. "Good answer."
"Are you coming home with Toby for Thanksgiving?" Hana asks eagerly. "I need to know what you like to eat. Do you have any allergies? Any favorite dishes?"
I blink, caught off guard by the question. I haven't spent a holiday with anyone since I was sixteen. "I... yes, I'd love to come. And I'll eat anything. No allergies."
"Wonderful!" Hana sounds genuinely delighted. "Oh, I can't wait to meet you properly. Toby, you must send pictures!"
They keep talking, asking about classes and his new dorm and a million normal things, like Toby didn't just drop a bomb about being mated for life to some guy they've never met. They just... accept it. Accept me.
By the time they hang up, the tension has bled out of Toby's shoulders. He looks ten pounds lighter, like he's breathing full breaths for the first time, and suddenly the whole room feels brighter.
"That went well," I say, pulling him against my side.