บททั้งหมดของ Teach me to desire : บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

The Lie to LeoThe scent of stale beer and popcorn was the closest thing I had to a safe harbor outside of Igor’s penthouse. Leo and I were sprawled across the worn sofa in his off-campus apartment, a place perpetually smelling of takeout and desperation, watching some ridiculously loud action movie. This was where I was supposed to be able to breathe, but lately, the air felt thin, suffocatingly so.I was clutching a half-empty bottle of cheap soda, but the sugary burn felt alien. My head was still fuzzy from the morning after my last rendezvous with Igor, and the contrast between the cold, sterile perfection of his life and the messy, familiar comfort of Leo’s was jarring. I felt like I was living two separate, mutually exclusive lives, and the guilt of that duality was starting to make my teeth ache.“Dude, are you even watching this?” Leo’s voice cut through my thoughts. He paused the movie, the screen freezing on a ridiculous explosion. He turned, his usual easy-going expression

Killian’s Confession of FearThe silence in Igor’s penthouse was not restful; it was a vast, echoey chamber that magnified every beat of my heart. We were in the study, a room designed to project intelligence and wealth and the low light filtering in from the city. I was supposed to be reviewing Igor’s feedback on the latest risk model, but the paper in my lap might as well have been written in Aramaic. The equations blurred together, resisting any attempt at comprehension.Igor sat across the massive desk, technically on the job, reviewing his own documents. He wore a heavy, dark grey cashmere sweater and reading glasses perched low on his nose, a picture of intellectual serenity. He looked utterly untouchable, a pillar of controlled, measured authority. And that very control was driving me insane.I felt like a live wire, humming with anxiety after hearing my father discuss the accelerated engagement plans at dinner. Every time I thought about it, the pit in my stomach churned, remi

Igor’s Emotional RevealThe silence after the storm was often more profound than the noise itself. We were stretched out on the long, low sofa in the penthouse living room, wrapped loosely in a soft, impossibly heavy blanket. It was late, past three in the morning, and the city outside was muted, almost respectful of our secret. I felt a deep, heavy peace that was completely alien to my life at the Hayes mansion. Next to Igor, I was finally quiet.I lay my head on his shoulder, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. It was a rhythmic, comforting sound—a human metronome that kept my own anxiety from spiraling. Everything about him felt solid, grounding, and absolutely real, a stark contrast to the paper-thin existence I led elsewhere.I reached up, my fingers tracing the sharp, perfect line of his jaw. He didn't flinch. He just held me, his own breathing deep and even. But even in that deep calm, I could feel a familiar tension return to his muscles, a hardening beneath the

The Shared TraumaThe leather of the sofa was cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating off Igor beside me. The room was dark, saved only by the distant shimmer of the city’s lights far below. After the initial rush of desperation had subsided, we often found ourselves like this—not talking, but simply existing in close, undeniable proximity. This was the only place where the tension that defined my waking life could finally bleed out.I was lying against his chest, listening to the soft, controlled rhythm of his breathing. My mind, however, was still a battlefield. The memory of Marcus’s smirk and the coach’s roar still echoed, but beneath that, the deeper, colder memory of my father’s silence was setting in.Igor shifted slightly, his arm tightening around my shoulder.“You are still carrying the weight of that practice, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice a low, steady vibration against my ear.I didn't answer right away. I pulled the heavy blanket higher around

Mrs. Elena’s Quiet WarningThe three days after the Governor’s Hall gala were a blur of performance. I was a puppet on a string, pulled between the University, the football field (where Marcus was still giving me death stares), and the constant, suffocating pressure of the Hayes mansion. Every time I saw my father, his eyes silently asked: Are you on track? Are you being perfect?The only real moment I had was the nightly call from Igor—always short, always veiled in academic language, but always ending with a phrase that was just for us, a tiny spark of warmth to keep the dark at bay.I was in the grand library, the room where my father often worked, filled with leather-bound books he’d never actually read. They were props for his image, just like the rest of us. I was supposed to be reviewing notes for Professor Thorne’s class, but really, I was just staring blankly at the page, trying to keep my breathing even.I feel like a jar of water sitting on a hot stove. The pressure is buil