⇥ Iνσɾʮ ⇤

Golden eyes.

Dark, angled eyebrows and the shadow of rough stubble framing the hard line of his mouth.

Long auburn hair that faded to a pastel pink at the ends—tonight it wasn't in a bun, but fell past his shoulders like that of some medieval king. He didn't have a costume on, nor did he need one. The black leather jacket hanging off his shoulders opened on either side, and a set of pecs showed through his taut graphic t-shirt.

He saw her.

This time, he definitely saw her.

"It's you?"

Nia's exclamation should have added a layer of intrigue to the situation, but Ivory still couldn't figure out which way her feet wanted to move.

As a result she was rooted to the spot, capable only of watching as the scene played out. The room was unbearably hot, and yet despite this, she wished her costume consisted of more than a tank top and spandex shorts veiled in nearly transparent chiffon.

The man's face twisted in confusion, and he closed the fridge door with a beer in hand. "Yes?"

"You're the guy from the hair salon," Nia clarified.

He straightened and leaned back into the counter, which only made his muscles all the more apparent—only emphasized every time his gaze shifted to her.

Such a shame he was a masterpiece. Breathing would be a whole lot easier if she wasn't on the verge of cardiac arrest.

"Ah, yes," he said, recognition flashing across his face. "Can I help you?"

"My friend Ivory wants to dye her hair," Nia blurted, then added after a pause, "Purple. She wants purple hair."

All things considered, it was sound enough reasoning. Anyone who knew anything about her knew she loved purple. It wasn't just her favorite color, it might as well be the shade of her personal aura. Everything from the sheets on her bed to her palettes of makeup, to the background on her phone were some shade of purple.

And she really wouldn't mind a switch from dusty brown to purple, but perhaps under different circumstances.

"Do you need it done...right now?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Thoughts momentarily disrupted, her tongue loosened and she managed to come up with a reply. "N-no! I came in for a refill, that's all."

Ivory took two quick steps to the counter where several large drink coolers sat next to a diminishing stack of red cups. Pouring a cup of water for Nia, she tried to explain the odd request. "I've been talking about my hair for weeks now, you see, so when Nia saw you, she had to say something."

She laughed nervously.

"I saw an opera—opportunity, and took it." Nia smiled, accepting the cup of water Ivory handed over.

This was going great. Between the two of them, they looked like a plastered mess. At least Nia might get better after hydrating, but her issue would persist even if this guy took the wise option and decided not to stick around.

"If it's that important, I'd be glad to do it for you," he said, taking her by surprise. "We can dye it in my apartment. That way I can waive the salon fee, providing you buy the dye."

Wrapping a palm over the beer bottle, he used one of the gold rings on his fingers and popped off the lid. It fell to the ground with a metallic clang, and she nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

How nice of him to offer, really, but she'd rather risk botching the job herself and getting fined for ruining the dorm's bathroom than consider being in his apartment. Knowing where he lived was a major health concern for both of them.

She turned to become very preoccupied filling two cups of liquid courage. Nia's water had disappeared, so she handed one cup to her friend and downed the other herself.

He extended the same offer to Nia, and as they conversed like regular people who could control their emotions, she prayed to the tequila gods for an opportunity to slip away.

But Nia had other plans. Turning to her with a wink, she announced, "I'm going to find Avril, you can get Adrian's contact info and I'll catch ya later."

Then she was gone.

Avril was their designated sober-drive tonight, which meant Nia was headed back to the dorms.

Which also left her alone, with the only other person in the kitchen—Adrian—looking down at his beer. Her mouth went dry, and they both fell silent.

"I didn't mean to bother you," she said after an awkward pause, voice much quieter than before.

"It's no bother," he hummed. "I'm going out back for a smoke. Join if you want." He didn't wait for her response and pushed off the counter, turning to go out onto the deck.

Here was her chance to walk away, but instead, the thought of losing his presence again made her feet follow behind his, shuffling out of the stuffy frat house and into the cool autumn air. It tickled her skin, whisked around her ankles and made the hair rise on her arms, but was a welcome change.

Beta Rho boasted a large backyard, equipped with a volleyball net and hot tub around the opposite corner of the deck, where conversation and red lights trickled over. On this side, however, long shadows stretched across a vacated space and it was quiet enough to hear the trees whisper with their dying leaves. The faint cast of street lights from the side street dispelled some of the dark, but not the shadow around him.

There was always a shadow around him.

Several chairs lie scattered at the edge of the deck, and as he sat in one, she went over to a spot a little ways away. This place suited him better. His black clothes both blended into the night and stood out—metal accents glinting small reflections of light from the party behind them. Unlike inside, though, relative silence hung around them as he inspected his beer without taking another sip. The music faded into nothing more than a heartbeat as neither spoke.

She didn't mind.

Even anticipating rejection, she found comfort in finally being alone together. If nothing else, she'd get to ask what it was he'd been looking for—try to get a hint at his burden. The rough exterior he carried wasn't imposing like Jace's, and it didn't make her feel small. In fact, just sitting here was more freeing than being around everyone else.

Working up the courage to speak, she sipped more margarita mix and tried to not let her eyes wander too much.

After a minute, he dropped the beer bottle between his parted knees and held the neck with ringed fingers. The movement caught her attention, and heat reignited in her face. If only he didn't have such an immediate effect on her. Everything he did caused a reaction in her body, his every breath practically triggering her heart to skip. The tequila certainly wasn't helping. Chewing her lip, she tore her eyes away and took a sharp inhale of cold air.

Earlier the moon had been out, but now its silver light was covered by a sea of clouds. The yard was so dark that anything more than fifteen feet away was pitch black.

What would it be like if they went further into the trees, where the branches blocked out the party and the cloak of darkness concealed them—would he teach her why he liked being in the shadows? Would she like it, if he did?

He set the beer on the ground, and she clutched her cup tighter, then cringed as the plastic crinkled. She should've refilled it before coming out. At this rate more was better than less.

And she needed to look somewhere other than the yard. Somewhere safe, so her drunken mind didn't get away with those kinds of thoughts. His eyes drew her in, their golden glow swirling as warmth spread through her chest and saturated her veins, her breaths slowing to an even pace. He met her gaze, and something stirred in their depths as his lips parted.

"I won't bite unless you ask," he spoke in a soft tone. It came almost like a whispered confession, his voice a smooth baritone that could carry over the small distance without added volume.

She averted her eyes. Surely it had been a harmless joke, but a part of her hoped he might be serious. She lifted her cup, only to find it was empty.

Unbothered, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket and, balancing one pale stick between long fingers, flicked the lighter as the cherry flared orange.

Her nose scrunched, the sharp smoky smell of toxin releasing into the air. Briefly her gaze followed the cigarette and dipped to the place where his lips met, dark and red. Probably soft and warm, too.

A puff of white smoke swirled out of his nostrils, lazily drifting into nothing before he opened his mouth and blew out the rest.

She coughed, batting at the air.

"I don't do relationships," he said, back to using the blunt, emotionless tone that gave nothing away.

She gave a polite smile to hide the pang of disappointment. "I wasn't looking for one."

Not with him, at least.

That's not what this was supposed to be about. If she'd been given the chance, or rather forced, into finally talking to him, then she was going to find out what he was after. Offering to help, even to listen to whatever had been bothering him, was far more important than indulging in personal fantasies.

"Then are you looking for a game?" he asked. "To let me play with you until I've had my fill? Because that's what I offer."

The words were a slap to the face, thrown out to unsettle—as they did—but coming from him, in that calm controlled voice, she almost wanted to say yes. Almost...

She shook her head. "No."

This was not time for her drunken desires to intervene, or for her to remember all the times he appeared behind her closed eyelids—this was about him.

Not her. Not the part of her she wished didn't exist in the first place.

"Such a sweet girl," he mused, taking another long drag of the burning cancer stick, and met her gaze. "You don't want me."

She held her breath, unable to confirm or deny his declaration even to herself. Her gaze traced along the subtle movements of the tendons in his fingers as he tapped the end of his cigarette.

"And yet," he continued. "Somehow I believe you'd still let me bring you to my place tonight. Ever since you first saw me, you've been working up the courage to say something. Your eyes haven't lingered on another guy for more than half a second, but you followed me out here alone and haven't broken eye contact once."

Smoke seeped out from between his lips, and she let her eyes wander down just to prove him wrong—that she could look away—but immediately felt the pull to look up again.

"I wouldn't go home with you," she insisted. Struggling to keep up the smile as her nose wrinkled at the bitter smell of smoke, she forced herself to believe her words. "Because you don't take girls home, do you?"

"Ah. Should've realized you picked up on that," he hummed. "I don't take girls home until they're aware of the rules, what they're getting into. That doesn't happen on the first night."

He tapped the end of his cigarette, then frowned. "If you don't like the smoke, say something."

"I don't like it," she said softly, torn between examining the outline of his slender fingers and fighting the urge to look back in his eyes.

He turned and blew the rest of the smoke downwind, a white stream curling into the night and spreading out like a ghostly wisp, this time away from her face. She took in a deep breath of clean air, only slightly mourning how obvious it made the difference between them.

Maybe their worlds didn't intersect, but that didn't mean she couldn't try to see into his.

"Wasn't so bad, asking for what you want, was it?" he asked.

She met his eyes. "I want to know what you're looking for."

He stared back at her, brow furrowing. Then he looked away and smiled—a sad, forlorn curve of velvet lips. "Don't waste your time on me, sweetheart. All you'd be is something to fuck."

The force of a hammer hit her hard in the chest, and she slowly cracked from the inside out.

Dropping the cigarette on the wood, he smothered it with his boot and handed her a business card from the salon with a handwritten number on the back. "I can be professional, though. Call if you actually want your hair dyed."

Then he stood and left, but this time she knew he wouldn't come back.

This time, he really would disappear into the shadows.