The day Lukas Fuller met Emma Whelan, his bond invitation to Olivia Byrne had broken a week ago. Hauled up in a pub, drinking beer after beer, he tries to forget his past lover while sharing small talk with the equally mopey Emma.
Though many drinks...
The trees outside were basically twigs under the frigid frost that coated them. The blades of grass beneath my butt poked me like sharp needles. And the harsh, chilling air—that would have had me shivering if it weren't for the warming spell I casted through my body—caressed my face, causing my nose and cheeks to flush.
But despite the horrid conditions, I was adamant I couldn't go back to the heated library. Because I just knew I'd be too tempted to talk to her. So I continued my study session in the courtyard, seated on the ground under a tree as the grey clouds loomed above me, threatening to cast a drizzle down at any moment.
The hour passed at a snail pace, with passers-by giving me questionable glances for sitting out in the cold (who can blame them). Then eventually I packed up my things and headed off to my next class, relishing in the warmth of the room that defrosted my limbs as I sat up the back, unpacking my belongings onto my desk.
Yet when the doors at the front of the room opened and that magnetic force tugged on every fibre of my being, I looked up into her emerald eyes that were already awaiting mine.
Not another class, I thought.
Her gaze shifted to the empty seat next to me before coming back to mine, a smile gracing her face.
No... Sit elsewhere. If you know what's good for you, I begged in my mind. But she didn't feel my pleas as she climbed the stairs and pulled up the seat next to me, setting her things on the small table space available.
"Seems we have a few classes together," she commented, not looking at me while she wrote the date and a heading on her page.
"Mhmm," I replied, doing my best to not ask her all the things I was curious about. Trying so desperately to not notice that she used a shampoo that smelled mostly like vanilla, tinged with notes of hibiscus and watermelon.
"So when did you move to London?" she asked, fidgeting with her pen as she stole glances my way as we waited for class to start.
My heart leapt at her attention but my mind was evidently at odds. I should have ignored her, but the bond invitation wouldn't allow me to do that. So I ended up saying, "Around when I was fifteen." She didn't need the decade.
"Oh, so some years now. I imagine you've done all the sightseeing then?"
"Yup." It hurt me to be this curt with her. From the corner of my eye, I could see the smile dropping more and more with each response I gave—or lack thereof.
"I haven't yet," she said quietly. "Anything you'd recommend?"
I shrugged, then stupidly decided to write the date in my own notebook—something I never did—as a distraction from her conversation.
"Okay," she said, voice deflated as she seemed to give up, doodling a flower in her margin as we awaited the lecturer now in silence.
The seconds felt like hours passing. I couldn't help but glance at her page as her drawing took shape after our conversation had ceased. The flower now had leaves growing up and down the margins in a rather mesmerising design. But as my gaze then trailed up to her hands, admiring the slenderness of her fingers and the petiteness of her palms, I then shifted my focus to her wrist poking out from her long-sleeved shirt.
My breath caught in my throat as I noticed the puckered scar extending the length of the delicate skin on the underside of her arm.
Her hand paused in drawing, free one coming over to yank her sleeve down, concealing the mark of pain. My eyes drifted up to hers, which were swirling in shame and sorrow, knowing I had seen it. I wanted nothing more than to tell her that she'd be okay. That things in life get better. That she need not be embarrassed about what she had to do in the past to cope. But then I'd be a hypocrite.
So instead of saying anything, I turned forward in my seat, back towards the front of the room, just in time for the lecturer to walk in and start talking about Shakespeare.
· · ───── ∘☽༓☾∘ ───── · ·
"Hey Lukas," her hesitant voice started as we packed our belongings into our bags.
I warily looked up, cocking my head to the side. I wanted to put on my usual jerk routine, but the bond invitation in combination with her vulnerability before class had me holding back from what I should do.
"It... I... You don't need to worry about me or anything," she said softly, unable to meet my gaze.
I didn't know what to say to that. So in my silence, she continued to ramble.
"What I mean to say is, I'm fine. I know what you saw might suggest I'm not, but it's honestly an old scar. So just... don't feel obligated to worry about me or anything."
"Just because a scar is old," I whispered, "Doesn't mean we don't still feel its mark every now and then."
Her forestry eyes glistened as she finally looked at me, brows turning downwards. Her mouth opened a couple of times to speak, but she struggled to find the words to say.
"Let me start by saying that I'm not a person who anyone should be friends with... because I'm more trouble than that's worth. But if you ever need someone to listen, then I'm here." I hoped that was enough of an olive branch for her. Because the truth was, I may not know her and maybe I wanted to because of whatever attraction that instigated this bond invitation, but no person should feel completely alone in this world. I wasn't the person she should ever rely on. But if I was all she had at this moment, I'd try to at least be an option.
"I don't think you get to decide that," she said, voice small.
"Decide what?" If I'm here?
"How much trouble you're worth. I think that's up to the person who has to face the trouble."
"Are you saying we don't decide our own worth?"
"Not when you think you have none. And you have a lot more than you seem to think you have."
"How do you know?"
"Because you just offered to be there for me... even though I know you've been trying to push me away." She got to her feet. "Thanks, Lukas. I'll see you tomorrow."
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