Loving Kinnick (Rewritten)

If You Are Offering To Be My Therapist, I Should Warn You.

A knocking in my head woke me up, and the person pounding on the door was a hangover with her arms full of regret. A wave of nausea rushed over me, soaking me with memories of everything that happened and why I started drinking in the first place - Warren's back. My body stilled at the sound of something breathing below me. I brought somebody back to my place.

I looked down at the arms wrapped around me to see a canvas of tattoos all black and articulately designed. My body relaxed against his because I knew exactly who lay below me on the recliner in my living room.

Then I remembered the nightmares, how he was here to take me away from the terrors behind closed eyes. While his arms were around me, he blanketed me with safety that shielded me from the green-eyed monster who infiltrated my life. For the first time in a long time, I slept without waking up screaming, well, mostly. Except, this time, I didn't need any medication.

Dad has told me about the countless drug abusers he has arrested. They all needed a fix - something to save them from reality. I never understood that even though I popped sleeping pills like balloons after a birthday party.

Not only Warren, but the death of my mom filled my head with toxins, telling me everything I should have done differently and how being here makes me a waste of space. I couldn't stop the poison from flooding my veins, staining my mental health, and tearing me down, but I found an antidote - Kinnick.

I have felt a certain kind of high in his presence. Weightless and untouchable. I think I'm finally starting to understand why people abuse drugs. If they were anything like Kinnick, I would abuse them too. I am a fiend for him, and I don't want to go to rehab because the only trace of any drug I want to course through my veins is Kinnick.

His body stirred underneath me. My eyes fell on the man with messy hair similar to the color of chestnuts on an opened fire. His arm was propped up on the side of the chair so he could hold his cheek with a closed fist. It made his lips squish together, making them appear plumper and a shade pinker than what they normally were.

The dark eyelashes I envied fluttered open, showcasing the baby blues that I adored so much. A lazy smile crossed his lips as his eyes closed once more for him to rub away the sleepiness from moments before.

"Goodmorning, bookworm."

Chills raised on my skin like spring flowers after afternoon showers. Holy crap. The raspiness of his voice was thick like an accent, but I couldn't get over how deep it was. Like Mariana Trench deep.

"Are you feeling okay?"

I shrugged. "A little sick to my stomach."

"Do you want me to make you something to eat?"

"You know how to cook?"

His face screwed up with disbelief. "Do I know how to cook? I'm practically Gordan Ramsey. Bo, I live alone, of course, I know how to cook."

I left to use the bathroom while he whipped up a batch of pancakes. I assumed the girl in the mirror would have makeup smeared all over her face, but as I stared at her with shock, I realized there wasn't a trace to be found.

When I came back downstairs, I saw him flipping a pancake in the pan. "Did you take my makeup off last night?"

"Yeah," he tossed my breakfast onto a plate. "It was quite adorable, actually."

"I don't remember you being at the party last night," I slid into a seat at the table. "When did you show up?"

"When I got a call at two-thirty saying you were absolutely trashed," he turned around, serving my plate. "Then I show up and find you with a bottle of alcohol in your hands as you dance on Trevor's table, and Luke below you encouraging it. Does he enjoy pissing me off, or is he just stupid?"