13. Connor
Chapter 13
Connor
I’m lying in bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, and for the first time in days, my ribs aren’t the thing keeping me awake. No, that would be Malachi bloody Dawson.
I can’t stop replaying the look on his face when I leaned in close, all flushed cheeks and darting eyes, like he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself. Christ, he wears his thoughts like a neon sign.
Every blush, every nervous twitch—it’s all written across that stupidly sweet face of his.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Sweet. Malachi’s fucking sweet, in the kind of way that makes you want to tease him just to see how deep the blush will go. I’m not used to sweet, I’m used to filthy, so how the fuck do I deal with this?
Those blue eyes don’t help either—clear as day and wide as hell whenever I get too close. It’s not fair how much they pull you in, like he’s daring you to make him uncomfortable while also hoping you won’t.
I let out a long breath, dragging a hand over my face. There’s something about him, something that doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the picture. He’s not like the other people I’ve met in this world—people who wear their lies like second skins, who can talk circles around the truth without breaking a sweat.
And then there’s the blushing.
It hits me like a sledgehammer. The way he reacted to me today wasn’t just nerves. It wasn’t just discomfort. I’ve flirted with enough people, both men and women, to know when I’m hitting a nerve.
Malachi’s not straight. He might not even realize it yet, but there’s no fucking way someone blushes that hard at another guy unless something’s going on under the surface.
A smirk tugs at my lips. If that’s the case, maybe it’s time to have a little fun. Not to be a complete arse about it, of course—just enough to see where the cracks are, how far I can push before he pushes back.
I’ll start slow, keep it light. Turn up the flirting to see how he handles it. The idea of watching him squirm has me grinning like an idiot, and I have to shake my head at myself. Christ, I’m ridiculous.
I close my eyes, letting the memory of those blush-stained cheeks and that soft little scowl settle in my mind. Tomorrow’s going to be interesting.
The next morning, I take my time heading to Malachi’s room. The sun’s already up, and I’ve got a mug of coffee in one hand and my plan to push him in the other.
When I open the door, Malachi’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, with one of the new books cracked open in his lap. He glances up as I step inside, his expression shifting instantly from neutral to annoyed.
“You’re late,” he says, pushing up the bridge of his glasses.
I raise an eyebrow, setting the coffee and toast on the desk by the door. “Didn’t realize I was on a schedule.”
“You’ve got me locked in here like a bloody animal,” he snaps. “What else do I have to look forward to except your charmin’ company?”
“Aw, you missed me,” I say, leaning against the desk with a smirk.
“Like a hole in the head,” he mutters, setting the book aside, then standing and stretching. The way he avoids looking directly at me doesn’t go unnoticed.
“So,” I say, nodding toward the book. “What are we readin’ today, Babyface?”
His head snaps up, and there it is—that blush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. “Stop calling me that.”
“No.”
He glares at me, crossing his arms over his chest. “I hate it.”
“But it’s so accurate,” I counter and walk toward him, stopping just a little too close. Close enough that I can see the way his shoulders tense, the way his lips press into a thin line like he’s fighting the urge to tell me to fuck off. “You’re adorable when you try to be all mean.”
His head snaps back toward me, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not adorable.”
“Sure, you’re not,” I say, grinning. “That’s why your cheeks are red as fuck right now.”
“They are not,” he snaps, but the way he drags a hand over his face like he’s trying to hide it says otherwise.
I laugh, crossing my arms. “Relax, Malachi. I’m just messin’ with you.”
“You’re always messin’ with me,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite to it.
“You’re fun to mess with,” I admit, shrugging. “Can’t help it. You’re like a puzzle.”
“A puzzle,” he repeats flatly.
“Aye,” I say, walking back and leaning against the desk again. “All these little pieces that don’t quite fit together. Like, how the hell does someone with a face like yours end up with a family like that?”
He stiffens, his gaze sharpening. “Don’t.”
The single word stops me in my tracks. I see it then—the flash of something raw, something close to anger but deeper. It’s gone as quickly as it came, but it’s enough to remind me of the line I’m dancing on.
I hold up my hands. “Alright, alright. No family talk. Got it.”
He nods, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Grand.”
The silence stretches between us, heavier now. I sip my coffee, watching him as he picks at the edge of his sleeve, his eyes flicking toward the window.
“You know,” I say after a moment, my tone lighter. “If you want out of this room, all you’ve gotta do is ask.”
He glares at me, but there’s a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s fighting a smile. “You’re full of shite, Cunningham.”
“And don’t you forget it,” I say, my grin widening as the blush creeps back into his cheeks.
He mutters something under his breath, grabbing his book and flopping back onto the bed. I let him have the last insult—for now.
Tomorrow, though? Tomorrow, I’ll see just how much more I can get away with.