The heavy, reinforced door of the Student Council president's office clicked shut, sealing out the hum of the hallway and the stunned silence of the classroom they had just exited. The air inside was cool, smelling of expensive floor wax and the faint, lingering scent of the tea James had been drinking earlier.
James walked toward his desk with a measured, rhythmic stride, his blazer pulling taut across his shoulders. He didn't look back at Joel immediately. He let the power of his earlier performance settle into the room.
"You heard the schedule, Assistant," James said, his voice regaining that crisp, professional edge. "The first bell for the morning session rings in forty minutes. I want this office pristine before you head to your first lesson. The shelves in the east corner are cluttered, and the files from yesterday's gala meeting need to be alphabetized. Move."
Joel nodded, his fingers still trembling as he set his bag down on a side chair. He moved toward the supply closet, his gait still slightly hitched from the bruise on his hip. He pulled out a microfiber cloth and a bottle of polish, his movements mechanical and small. He began to wipe down the mahogany surfaces, his head bowed, trying to make himself as small as possible in the vast, opulent room.
James sat in his executive chair, leaned back, his amber eyes tracking Joel's every movement.
The image of Joel in the park the night before—shaking, tear-streaked, and beautiful under the Toronto moon—was burned into the back of James's eyelids. He remembered the way Joel's breath had hitched against his lips.
"You were crying yesterday," James said suddenly.
The cloth in Joel's hand stopped moving. He didn't look up. "I... I was crying because of the hallway, President. Everyone was—"
"No," James interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating frequency. "Not the hallway. Last night. In the park. Before I... before the fall. You weren't just upset about the school. You looked like you were mourning something."
Joel's shoulders tensed. He began to scrub a spot on the desk with unnecessary fervor. "It was nothing. I was just overwhelmed."
James stood up. He walked around the desk, his presence looming larger with every step until he was standing directly behind Joel. He didn't touch him, but he leaned in close—so close that Joel could feel the heat radiating from James's chest.
"You can trust me, Joel," James whispered, his voice like silk against the shell of Joel's ear. "I know I've... I know the situation is complicated. But I'm the one who stands between you and the rest of this school now. If there's something hurting you at home, or anywhere else... you can tell me."
Joel let out a sharp, jagged breath. He finally turned around, his eyes flashing with a rare, desperate spark of defiance. The microfiber cloth was crumpled in his fist.
"Trust you?" Joel's voice was a wrecked, quiet thing. "How am I supposed to trust someone who treats my life like a game of chess? You kiss me in the hallway because of a dare, and then you kiss me in the park because you 'wanted to see how it felt.' You make me a laughingstock, and suddenly a watch is found in my bag to turn me into a criminal, and then you tell me I can trust you?"
Joel's chest heaved, his voice cracking as the suppressed emotions of the last twenty-four hours began to leak out.
"You play with me whenever you feel like it, President. You pull me in and then you push me down. Why would I tell you anything? Why would I give you more pieces of me to break?"
James flinched. The words hit him harder than any physical blow. He looked at Joel and saw the profound wall of ice that his own actions had built. He wanted to reach out. He wanted to wrap his arms around Joel's tiny, shaking frame and pull him so tight that the world disappeared. He wanted to tell him that every cruel thing he'd done was a panicked attempt to keep him close.
But he wasn't ready. The words felt like lead in his throat. If he confessed now, if he told Joel he loved him, it would only sound like another lie, another move in a game Joel was tired of playing.
James's jaw tightened. A dark, simmering frustration settled in his gut. I'll find it out on my own, James thought. He didn't need Joel's permission to protect him, and he didn't need his permission to investigate what was happening when the boy went home to that quiet, dark street.
"Fine," James said, his voice turning cold to mask the ache in his chest. "If you don't want to talk, then work. I'm paying for your silence with your enrollment. Get back to cleaning."
James leaned against the heavy oak table nearby, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched Joel with an intensity that was borderline suffocating. He didn't blink. He followed the line of Joel's neck, the way his hair brushed his collar, the way his fingers moved rhythmically over the wood.
Joel felt the weight of the gaze. It was heavy, hot, and unblinking. It made his skin crawl with a mixture of discomfort and a shameful, electric awareness. He tried to ignore it, moving toward the lower cabinets to organize the archive boxes.
To reach the bottom shelf, Joel had to bend over.
The school trousers, tailored and sharp, pulled tight across his frame as he leaned forward. From James's vantage point, the view was devastating. He gazed at the perky, rounded curve of Joel's buttocks, the fabric highlighting the delicate, lithe strength of the boy's body. James's throat went dry. His pupils dilated until the amber of his eyes was almost entirely swallowed by black.
He let his eyes travel slowly, possessively, over Joel's form. He thought about the way Joel had felt in his arms the night before—soft, small, and perfectly fitted to him.
Joel sensed the shift in the air. The silence behind him had grown too thick, too charged. He glanced back over his shoulder and caught James's gaze. It wasn't the gaze of a President; it was the gaze of a man starving, fixed entirely on him.
Joel's face exploded into a deep, agonizing crimson. He stood up abruptly, his heart racing so fast he felt dizzy. He dropped the polish bottle, the plastic clattering against the floor.
"I... I'm going to start on the windows," Joel stammered, his voice high and panicked. He practically fled to the other side of the room, grabbing a ladder and positioning it as far from James as the walls would allow.
James watched him go, a slow, dark smirk tugging at his lips. He knew he was making Joel uncomfortable. He knew he was playing with fire. But as he watched the boy climb the ladder, his mind was already moving toward the truth that Joel was trying so hard to hide.
"Hurry up, Assistant," James murmured, his voice a low, teasing threat. "The bell is going to ring, and I'd hate for you to be late to class."