this.
This job might not be what he wanted to do. It might just be another step in these holding patterns he always fell into, until he felt like an impostor walking into that room like he belonged there. But he’d committed to this—so if he was going to do it, he’d try his best to do it right.
And as long as Iseya had his back...
He’d be fine.
And he’d have tomorrow’s kiss to look forward to, to always carry him through.
Chapter Six
Fox was beginning to think he’d been a little too on the nose, calling Summer a puppy.
Because it was starting to feel like he’d adopted one.
The first day of class had been somewhat uneventful, at least.
He’d tamed the class back into obedience, introduced Summer, and then let Summer take a back seat to work on grading papers and observing his teaching methods while Fox led the three afternoon sessions, repeating each time—and impressing very clearly on his unruly pupils that even if they might not fear Summer...
They wouldn’t escape Fox’s wrath if they kept trying to fuck with him.
It wasn’t that he was protective of Summer.
Not at all.
He simply liked a quiet classroom, of course.
Of course.
And the classroom was almost painfully quiet after the last bell, once everyone had filed out and there was only Summer and Fox, and Summer gathering up the stacks of assignments he’d been given to grade against Fox’s rubric by tomorrow.
They’d only looked at each other for long moments, and Fox...
For the first time in a very long time, found that he didn’t know what to say.
Most of the time he simply didn’t want to talk.
But he’d never quite found himself at a loss in just this way, before.
Summer had spoken, instead, offering a shy smile, watching him through the messy fringe of his hair, shadowing blue eyes until they glowed like descending twilight.
“See you in the morning?” he offered. “To...to check and make sure I graded things right.”
“Ah,” Fox said, and inclined his head. “Of course.”
For some reason, that had made Summer light up, brilliant and sweet, his smile widening.
Before he nodded, and ducked out of the room like he was actually eager to wade through nearly a hundred papers on why Jung was, quite frankly, a woo-peddling asshole.
Then immediately ducked back in, biting his lower lip, faltering in that way he had that said he was nerving himself up to something; Fox could almost see it ticking over behind his eyes, that rising swell of bravery before he blurted, “Can I have your phone number?”
Fox leaned back in his desk chair, crossing his ankle over his knee and studying Summer, tapping a pen against his thigh. “Why?”
“Um. So I don’t have to go to your room if I have a question?” Summer ventured, then ducked his head...but his mouth was twitching at the corners, struggling so clearly not to turn upward, while he watched Fox from beneath his lashes, the shadow of his brows, the fringe of his hair.
“Email suffices perfectly well,” Fox pointed out.
“It could,” Summer said, trailing off...
And Fox thudded his head back against his chair, closing his eyes for a moment.
Summer might as well be wagging his tail.
Grinding his teeth, slitting his eyes open, he held out his hand. “Phone.”
Tumbling back into the room, Summer plunked the stack of papers in a skewed heap atop Fox’s desk, then fumbled into his pocket, producing a slim Samsung that he almost dropped before he managed to swipe the screen, tap in his code, then thrust the phone at Fox with that annoyingly shy, boyishly sweet smile.
Fox eyed him over the rims of his glasses.
Where did he find the energy?
But, with a sigh, he pulled up Summer’s address book and tapped his number in, saving it under Iseya, Fox before passing the phone back; their fingers brushed as Summer curled his hand around the Samsung, and for a moment they held, Summer staring at him with his lips parted, while Fox wondered distantly, idly, how anyone’s fingertips could be so warm.
Then, clearing his throat, Summer pulled back, straightening and tapping quickly over the screen before giving a decisive little nod. “I sent you a text so you’ll have mine.”
Fox frowned, pressing his palm over the pocket of his slacks, searching—the shape of his iPhone wasn’t there.
Hellfire.
Where had he left the thing?
And why hadn’t he heard it vibrate?
He checked his other pocket, then leaned forward, patted his back pockets. Nothing. Muttering to himself, he pulled the central drawer of his desk open; nothing