Third Time's a Charm ✓

eleven

MONDAY. 28. FEBRUARY. 22. (half-edited)

"ANSWER YOUR PHONE, asshole," Archie said when I opened the door, lowering his phone from his ear and ending the unanswered call. His eyes danced up and down over me, his face scrunching into a frown. "You look fucking terrible."

"You look fucking terrible," I snapped, stepping aside to let him into the house. He didn't. He looked as gorgeous as he always did; his hair tousled, the edges tinted gold by the hazy, glinting sunlight, his bright eyes sharp and insistent, his blushing lips tugging downwards as he considered my accusation.

"No, I don't," he assured, stepping inside and grinning at me.

"I know," I muttered, closing the door behind him. "What do you want, you dick?"

"You haven't answered your phone since Saturday night," he said, waving his phone at me before tucking it into the pocket of his jacket. "I wanted to make sure you were still alive."

"Here I am," I replied, opening my arms out. "Still alive."

"Doesn't look like it," he remarked, cocking a brow and glancing over me like he was unimpressed. "You look like you just crawled out of a grave."

"Shut up, Archie," I scowled, nudging him when I slipped past.

"Bad mood, huh?" He frowned, following me into the living room and sitting down besides me where I'd collapsed on the couch. He pinched my arm and I smacked him away. "Touchy. What's going on?"

"She's home," I told him, unpausing the TV and settling back into the space where I'd made myself comfortable before his arrival.

He hummed and it sounded like it was lost somewhere between nonchalant and thoughtful.

"Exactly," was all I replied.

"Saturday night?" He asked, leaning back against the couch and shuffling closer towards me. He was looking at me and there was something intimate about his closeness, something familiar about the way he tilted his head and accentuated the edge of his jaw, something achingly human about the valleys wandering over the arch of his cheekbones and the curve of his lips, the flutter of his eyelashes.

Looking away from him, I sighed.

"Have you talked to her?" He asked, his gaze unyielding.

"Do I ever?"

For a beat, he was quiet and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance towards the ceiling. "Are you gonna come into school tomorrow?" He asked eventually.

"I don't know," I muttered, rubbing a rough hand over my face. "Maybe if it takes me less than four hours to get out of bed then I'll consider it."

"What about dinner?" He asked, softened eyes fixed on me; my sharpened eyes fixed on the TV screen. "Have you eaten?"

"No, not today."

"It's past four o'clock," he frowned, lifting himself up a little, his lower arm pressed flat against the top of the couch, so that he could more efficiently shove his displeasure in my face.

"Haven't been hungry," I insisted, staring at an episode of a favorite show that I'd seen a million times before. By now, I always knew what dialogue was coming next and I wouldn't be surprised if, purely because of the time he spent with me, Archie could quote half the scenes himself.