Chapter Seventeen: The Boyfriend
Writer's POV - Age 16-17
They kept it secret.
Not because Fabiola was ashamed she would have shouted it from the rooftops if Evan let her. But he insisted.
"I don't want people talking about you," he said. "They already call you the freak whisperer. If they know we're together, it'll get worse."
"I don't care what they say."
"I do." His jaw tightened. "I care what they say about you."
So they hid it. Stolen moments in empty classrooms. Kisses in the back stairwell. Hands brushing in hallways where no one was watching.
It should have felt wrong, keeping it secret.
Instead, it felt like theirs. Something precious and private that the rest of the world couldn't touch.
Evan was different as her boyfriend than he'd been as her friend.
More intense. More possessive.
He needed to know where she was, who she was with, what she was doing. Not in a controlling way
he never told her what to do or tried to isolate her. But he needed to know.
"It's not that I don't trust you," he explained one afternoon in the library. They were supposed to be studying, but he'd pulled her into the back corner, between the dusty shelves no one ever visited. "It's that I need to know you're safe. That you're real. That you're not going to..." He stopped himself.
"Disappear?" Fabiola finished softly.
He nodded, looking young and vulnerable.
She understood. Lucas had disappeared. Had been there one moment and gone the next. Of course Evan was terrified it would happen again.
So she texted him when she got home from school. Called him before bed. Let him know her schedule, her plans, everything.
And every time they met, he scented her.
It had become a ritual. A need.
She'd walk into their meeting spot the stairwell, the library, the empty art room and Evan would pull her close immediately. No greeting. No hello.
Just his face buried in her neck, breathing deep.
"Cocoa butter today," he'd murmur against her skin. "And something else. Honey?"
"Shea moisture conditioner."
"Mm." He'd inhale again, deeper. Move to her wrists, pressing his nose to her pulse points. Then her hair, running his fingers through her coils and breathing in the scent. "You're real," he'd whisper. "You're here."
At first, Fabiola found it strange. But she got used to it. Started to crave it, even.
There was something intimate about being scented. Something that made her feel claimed. Like she belonged to him in a way that went beyond words.
"Why do you do that?" she asked one day as he pressed his face into her hair, inhaling slowly.
"Do what?"
"Smell me. Every time we meet."
Evan pulled back slightly, his gray eyes searching her face. "Does it bother you?"
"No. I just want to understand."
He was quiet for a long moment, his hands still in her hair, his expression distant.
"I need to know you're real," he said finally. "Memories lie. Eyes deceive. But scent..." He breathed in again. "Scent doesn't lie. When I smell you, when I breathe you in I know you're actually here. That you're not a dream or a hallucination or something I've imagined because I'm so desperate not to be alone."
Fabiola's chest ached. "I'm real, Evan. I promise."
"I know. But I need the reminder." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "After Lucas... sometimes I'm not sure what's real anymore. Sometimes I see things. Hear things. And I can't tell if they're actually there or if I'm losing my mind." His voice dropped. "But your scent grounds me. When I breathe you in, everything else fades. The voices stop. The shadows recede. You become the only real thing in the world."
"Then scent me all you want," Fabiola whispered.
Relief flooded his expression. He pulled her close again, burying his face in the crook of her neck, and breathed like she was oxygen.
The jealousy started small.
A boy in her history class asked to borrow her notes. Evan saw. Said nothing. But later, when they were alone, he pressed her against the wall and scented her frantically, desperately, like he was checking for contamination.
"Did he touch you?" Evan asked, his voice tight.
"What? No. He just..."
"Did he get close to you?"
"Evan, he asked for notes.."
"I don't like him near you." His hands tightened on her waist. "I don't like anyone near you."
"That's not really fair.."
"I know." He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed. "I know it's not fair. I know it's not healthy. But I can't help it, Fabiola. When I see other people near you, touching you, making you smile.." His jaw clenched. "I want to tear them apart. I want to mark you so everyone knows you're mine."
Fabiola should have been scared. Should have seen the red flags.
Instead, she felt a dark thrill run through her.
"I am yours," she said.
"Then let me prove it."
He kissed her hard and possessive and when he pulled back, he bit her neck gently. Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to leave a mark.
"Evan..."
"I'm sorry." But he didn't sound sorry. He sounded satisfied. "I just need everyone to know. Need them to see that you're taken. That you belong to someone."
He traced the mark with his thumb, and his eyes were dark with possession.
Fabiola should have protested. Should have told him this was too much.
But she liked it. Liked the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world. Liked the way he needed her, craved her, wanted her with an intensity that should have been frightening.
"You're mine," he said again, and it wasn't a question.
"I'm yours," she confirmed.
And she meant it.
At night, alone in her room, Fabiola would touch the mark on her neck and wonder if this was what love was supposed to feel like.
Consuming. Obsessive. All-encompassing.
Or if they were both drowning and calling it swimming.
Her mother noticed the mark at breakfast.
"What's that on your neck, mija?"
Fabiola's hand flew to cover it. "Nothing. Just... a bruise."
Rosa's eyes narrowed. "From what?"
"I bumped into something at school."
Her mother didn't believe her. Fabiola could see it in her face. But Rosa said nothing, just crossed herself and muttered a prayer under her breath.
That night, Fabiola found a protection charm on her pillow a small pouch filled with herbs and stones, tied with red string.
Her mother's way of saying: I know. And I'm afraid for you.
Fabiola tucked it in her drawer and went to bed.
And dreamed of gray eyes and cold hands and being scented until she forgot where she ended and Evan began.
And woke up aching for more.