𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝘿𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂

𝐂𝐀𝐈𝐍 [ 𝐤𝐞𝐲𝐧 ]

She was in the bathroom.

Naked.

He groaned out loud, swiping a hand down his face in frustration. He felt as if he was a horny pubescent boy lusting over his tutor who may or may not have been 30 years older than him. He lay stretched out in his bed, his gun clasped tightly in his right hand and a clean rag in the other. The metal cylinder of his pistol was reflective enough that he could make out the individual eyelashes adorning his eyes.

He focused on the weapon in his hand. Anything to get his mind off the girl in his bathroom.

She was changing into some spare clothes Astrid had lent her, as they were about to embark onto their trip to Ivan's. A growing ball of worry spun in his stomach, mingling with the lust he felt. It left his head feeling muddled and confused.

She walked out a moment later, mouth drawn into a sulking pout.

"What is it now?" Cain asked, exasperated.

"Look at me!" She blustered, pointing to the clothes she wore. "This is hideous!"

He had to admit, Astrid's clothes had seen better days. The top fit loosely around her torso, billowing strangely, and the bottoms were indecently tight around her thighs and hips.

Not that he was complaining.

Layla, on the other hand was full of complaints.

"I refuse to leave this room looking like a-like a clown!" She hissed, crossing her arms.

"You don't look like a clown." Cain said tiredly, rubbing a hand down his face. "And does it matter? We'll be gone for an hour at most."

"An hour of me looking like a complete clown." Layla pouted, her bottom lip trembling and the tears in her eyes threatening to spill over.

"Jesus, okay let's not-let's not cry." Cain stood up, eyes wide with alarm. "Let me just-fuck, give me a sec. Please stop crying."

Panic struck him at the sight of her watery eyes and her shallow breathing, and he found himself looking for anything to make her happy again.

She glared at him through furrowed eyebrows, seemingly doing her best not to cry. Cain made sure to note that she took her appearance very seriously.

"How about you take a look through my clothes and see what you like, and we can stop by at some stores before we return, yeah?" He ran a nervous hand through his white-blond hair.

She nodded like a petulant child and stomped over to his drawers, shuffling through his folded clothes.

"I know what you're thinking." She mumbled, head down so her hair covered her face. "I'm not a cry-baby."

Layla sniffed and wiped her cheek.

"I didn't say you were." He replied smoothly.

But he definitely thought it.

"It's just that..." She trailed off, finding a black tank top he had last worn a couple years ago, before he had his growth spurt. He could no longer fit it over his head, but she seemed to like it.

Layla sighed, opening the second drawer and shuffling through his pants.

"It's just that I have zero control over my life." She said quietly. "What I wear is quite literally the only thing I can choose freely."

Her fingers stuttered over a folded square of black jersey fabric and she pulled out a pair of trackies he used to sleep in.

"I don't like having my choices taken away from me." She looked up, jaw set in determination.