from wondering what if.
What if the janitor hadn’t interrupted?
What if Damon hadn’t lit out of there like his ass was on fire?
What if he’d stayed and pulled Rian into his arms and kissed him again and again, softly and fiercely and every way in between, until Rian’s eyes were hot melted honey and he looked at Damon with his sugar-candy lips bruised so sweet?
Stop it.
He sent another hard roundhouse slamming into the bag, the impact shocking through his whole body until he tensed to take it, absorb it, then stopped as the reminder alarm he’d set on his phone went off.
That faculty meeting.
Fuck.
Groaning, Damon caught the bag and stilled its swing, just lingering for a few moments, taking several deep, centering breaths.
They’d be around nearly two dozen other teachers and staff.
They wouldn’t even have to look at each other.
Just...breathe.
He kept reminding himself to breathe through a shower and through dressing in a clean T-shirt and track pants, before making his way to the large conference room situated between the principal’s and assistant principal’s offices. Principal Chambers wasn’t there; Damon wasn’t sure what Chambers actually did or if he even lived on campus, when the only time he’d ever met the man had been during his job interview. Instead Assistant Principal Walden always presided over these meetings, and it was downright disgusting how crisp and put-together Walden looked at the head of the long oval conference table, when the rest of them looked about ready to fall asleep in their chairs with an hour until the morning bell for breakfast, and two hours until bell for classes.
Damon was pretty sure Walden held meetings this early not so staff would be clear for cafeteria duty, but because the man was a fucking sadist.
And Damon had to be a fucking masochist, because even as he stole his usual corner chair under the window...his eyes gravitated to Rian.
To Rian, and how he’d bundled himself up like a sleepy kitten, folding his tall frame into a high-backed leather chair with his knees hugged to his chest and his oversized clothing falling all over him, his hair a bed-rumpled mess and his eyes clouded and half-closed.
The ache that punched Damon in the gut took him right back to that rain-streaked afternoon in Rian’s studio; that kiss, fingers in his hair, gasping needy sounds. But he didn’t realize just how intently he was staring at Rian until Rian turned his head with a drowsy noise, pillowing his cheek to his kneecaps—only to go completely still, heavy-lidded eyes opening fully, sharpening, as they crossed paths with Damon’s.
Color climbed high in Rian’s cheeks as they stared at each other for several stricken moments. Damon looked away first, forcing his gaze aside and fixing out the window. His blood felt like slow poison, and he reminded himself yet again to breathe.
Fuck, this wasn’t supposed to be this hard.
Clenching his jaw, Damon kept his focus out the window—and was hardly aware of when Walden started talking. It didn’t matter. He almost never had anything to say in these meetings, anyway, and most of them weren’t relevant to him until he had to get down into the nitty gritty of coordinating away game schedules around teachers’ tests and makeup projects. Someone would yell at him if they needed something.
Someone was yelling at him, he realized.
Well...not really yelling. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Lachlan Walden raise his voice.
But Walden was sure as hell talking very firmly as he said, “Misters Louis and Falwell, if the two of you could stop your personal feud long enough to pay attention, please?”
Damon jerked, snapping his head up with his entire chest giving a painful thump. Without meaning to, he immediately looked right at Rian—and Rian was looking right back at him with the same wide-eyed, guilty stare.
Before he smiled—small, thin, goddammit, that shallow smile Damon hated so much when there was not a single fucking thing of Rian in it.
Just a careful self-protective façade, without a bit of that fire that made him such a pain in the ass to deal with.
Damon scowled, looking away from that empty smile and focusing on Walden. “We’re fine,” he grunted. “What did you want?”
“Mr. Falwell?” Walden lilted with lethal cordiality.
“Seriously, it’s fine,” Rian said softly. “I’m listening.”
“Then perhaps you could tell me if you intend to hold dance and music curricula next semester,” Walden asked flintily. “You have two students in your music theory course, and four in dance. Hardly a full complement, and your salary will not