OPHELIA
Malachi lies on my bed with his hands locked behind his head, the result of which is his already tight T-shirt straining at the seams of his tattooed and incredibly muscular biceps. He sings softly to himself. It sounds like an Irish folk song, sad and soulful and entirely distracting. Just like him. I pick up the unicorn plushie that’s fallen on the floor and throw it at his head.
He catches it and tucks that behind his head too, flashing me a grin. “Sorry, was I distracting you when you’re trying to study?”
I wave my textbook in the air. “Um, yes.”
“What are you studying with such ferocity on this fine evening, Ophelia?” There’s a playfulness in his tone that makes me want to smile. But I don’t, because he’s not here out of the kindness of his heart.
“Psychology.”
His eyes
