Phantom Touch | Minho |

Chapter four

I could still run. From the way he surveyed me I swore he could read my mind.

I crossed my arms tightly across my chest, wishing beyond everything else that I had kept my long sleeve.

"Here," Minho had dropped his backpack off his shoulder (after stepping back several strides to create sufficient distance between us), then proceeded to strip off his shirt, lifting the white tank top underneath just enough to show the outline of the beginning of a prominent V line beginning at the base of his torso. After the hours we had just spent running, side-by-side, I hardly even flinched at this movement, though I couldn't hide my shock if I tried.

He threw his shirt in my direction, a waft of musky sweat hit my nose as I caught it against my chest. I couldn't help the look of disgust on my face if I tried.

"Trust me, you don't smell like a field of roses either." He rolled his eyes at my expression.

I looked at the balled up clothing in my hand. "...thank you."

This seemed to catch him on the unaware, finally. He turned toward me for what felt like the first time in two hours, both eyebrows raised and the corners of his mouth tilted every so slightly upward. "Oh, I'm sorry, what was that? Did...did you just say thank you?" He placed a hand on his chest as though he were pretending to be struck with sentimentality.

Regretting my words, I pulled the dark red shirt over my head, surprised by the lightness of the fabric. I cuffed the ends of the sleeves which otherwise hung past my fingers, glancing back at Minho.

When my eyes returned to his face out of mistrusting habit I found, to my immediate shock, a steely, incomprehensible gaze. His face was relaxed into a neutral, unfeeling state, all except for his dark brows furrowing slightly above his eyes, as if in concentration. It was a state so intense I thought he must have every inch of my face catalogued in just seconds, or must have been in the process of doing such.

"I don't know you're name." it wasn't a question, but he paused afterwards anyways, waiting for a response.

"No, you don't." I walked ahead of him, nearing the wall's turn. Why should he know my name? It felt like the less everyone knew, the more information I hoarded to myself (however useless and trivial, like a name), the more stability I had. It was the only thing I had that was no one else's, my one possession.

"What, is it embarrassing?" I heard his steps behind me. "Can't be worse than "Gally", right? Is it?"

I didn't answer.

"Hey-" I felt a warm, calloused hand on my arm as he reached out from behind me.

What followed was a little ugly.

I shoved my full weight backwards against his stomach, leading with my forearms and keeping the blade of the knife flat to the skin, unable to pierce either of us. He hit the ground, hard, the air knocked out of his lungs as he grasped his lower abdomen.

"Don't ever touch me! Ever!" I gripped the dagger in front of me. "Do you understand?"

"Okay, okay!" He drew in a deep breath, staying on the ground. Something told me he could have easily jumped to his feet if he wanted to, but decided slow movements was the smartest approach. "Look, I'm sorry! It won't happen again."

A pain of guilt pulled at my stomach as I watched him slowly pull himself upward. He didn't mean to scare me.

But there was something about hands. It was the same sickening feeling I had felt when I was pulled from the box and shoved into the dirt. Something about touch made my skin crawl and burn.