The Feature

V

The dusty blue light of early morning melted through the window, making your already blurred vision even more unclear. You blinked a few times before sitting up; your head feeling like a boulder, almost too heavy for your neck to hold, and the side of your face was hot, the crosshatched fabric of the couch leaving an imprint on your cheek.

A soft, wool blanket had been draped over you, making you remember where you were, who had covered you with it. You glanced over to see Benedict sleeping on the other couch, head back, arms folded across his chest like he'd drifted off while sitting up. You couldn't help but wonder if he'd stayed there to watch over you, to make sure you were okay, or if he simply didn't trust you to be left alone in his house. Maybe it was both.

You thought about waking him, but the embarrassment of last night was almost too much to bear; the way you'd sauntered into his house, the hand you'd placed on his thigh, how you'd sobbed in front of him before having to be laid down to sleep like a helpless infant. It was mortifying. In some ways, even more mortifying than the night you'd tried to interview him.

A feeling of disappointment washed over you as you rose quietly to your feet, realising this was probably the last time you'd ever see him. Of course you would see him again, all you had to do was open a magazine or turn on a television. But you would never occupy the same space; you would see him, but he wouldn't be looking back.

You folded the blanket and left it neatly on the arm of the couch, picking up your jacket and slipping it on quietly, avoiding making even the slightest bit of noise and wincing as you pulled the sleeve over your bruised arm.

You glanced over at him again with a sigh. There really was something beautiful about him; something that could never fully translate through a screen or in a photograph. Every angle and curve of his face, every bone and shadow seemed so deliberate, so perfectly placed it were as if he'd been sculpted by Alexandros of Antioch himself. Even with the tan, the facial hair and smile lines, there was still a romance behind the roughness; like marble and leather, glass and stone.

You couldn't leave without knowing there was at least a chance you might see him again. Not for the interview, not to save your job, but because you felt a need to. You looked down at the bracelet on your wrist; a thin gold chain with a small nameplate, 'Quinn' engraved in delicate scripture. You undid the clasp and placed it on the floor next to the couch, making it look as though it had fallen off in your sleep. It seemed stupid, the idea that he would take the time to return it to you after everything you'd done. But there was a kindness to him that you'd witnessed firsthand, perhaps even a soft spot that gave you a small speck of hope.

You crept out of the house and pulled your jacket tight around you, shielding yourself from the frosty November morning as you began to walk down the street. The bitter cold hit you like a hard slap, kicking your hangover into gear and making you want to curl up on the side of the road and die. You needed your bed, greasy food and a suitcase-worth of painkillers. But instead you had your phone, a car sitting outside a pub ten miles away, and a couple of hours before you had to be at work.

Curling up and dying on the side of the road was starting to seem more and more appealing by the minute.

~*~

You collected your car from the pub and drove home, slowly and carefully, fully aware you probably shouldn't have been behind the wheel yet. Your head was pounding, stomach turning like you could be sick at any moment. Throwing up on yourself in your car, you pondered, still wouldn't be the worst thing to happen to you in the last week. 

You got home and made your way straight to the bathroom, undressing as you went, leaving your clothes in a trail behind you through the flat. With shaking legs you climbed into the shower, closing your eyes and letting the hot water fall over you, trying to wash everything away; the embarrassment, the anger, the disgust. But when you got out, it was all still there, along with your headache and a pain in your shoulders from spending the night on Benedict's couch.