Irresistible Compulsions

||Ch. Two||

I've been camped out in my room for a couple of hours now, and it's just hit 11:30 p.m.

Well aware I should've been asleep long ago, I can't ignore the desperate rumbling of my stomach any longer.

Working a mix of night, morning, and afternoon shifts has completely wrecked my body clock. Sometimes, I come home from a shift and the sound of buzzers rings in my ears for hours, no matter how hard I try to relax. The worst is when it creeps into my subconscious and I start dreaming about answering call bells all night.

Craving something to soothe my fried nervous system, I settle on hot chocolate and biscuits and waddle my way downstairs.

Flicking on the kitchen light, I nearly jump out of my skin.

"What're you doing in the dark for goodness sake?" I snap, heart still racing.

Dylan blinks at me, mid-swig from a three-litre bottle of milk, my bottle of milk, a white moustache lining his top lip. He freezes, looking at me like a toddler who's been caught red-handed drawing on the walls.

I scrunch my nose in disgust. He shrugs, completely unbothered.

Popping the kettle on, I go to the pantry and grab out a sachet of hot chocolate powder, looking over to him with an annoyed expression as he stares back cluelessly.

Finally, realisation dawns. He holds out the milk, a filthy smirk spread across his face.

"If you wanted my white liquid, babe, all you had to do was ask."

I fake gag, rolling my eyes at his childishness. "What are you, twelve?"

"Twelve inches, maybe."

I snort, rolling my eyes again. "You're a grub."

I turn away, reaching up on my tippy toes to grab my favorite mug from the cupboard.

When I turn back around, Dylan's staring at my lower half, and it hits me just how bad my pyjamas are.

I'm wearing a pair of black granny panties under an oversized grey sweatshirt, one that's covered in a handful of food stains from my late-night snacking crusades.

I quickly tug the hoodie down lower, suddenly self-conscious about my outfit choice. But when I lock eyes with him, the awkwardness hangs thick in the air, and I scramble for something, anything, to change the subject.

He has no right to judge me—this is my house. But the thought of him silently critiquing me makes heat flush across my chest, warming me beneath the wool of my sweatshirt.

I clear my throat. "So, tell me. You've just spent four years in a massive sausage fest. I figured you'd spend your first night out chatting up chicks, trying to get laid. Why'd you decide to stuff your face with fast food while watching The Inbetweeners with a bunch of other blokes?"

I earn a chuckle in response, and that familiar, amused grin creeps back onto his face.

"Evie, if you saw the food they served us in prison, you'd understand why eating a decent meal was at the top of my priority list." He shrugs, his tone playful.

"Besides," he adds with a grin, "as you so kindly pointed out, I've been getting it up the butt, so I'm actually very satisfied... sexually."

Touché.

"How was prison anyway? You know, other than getting molested in the showers on a daily basis." I ask, pouring the hot water into my mug filled with hot chocolate powder, unsure where his boundaries lie but never one to shy away from using dark humour as a coping mechanism.

Part of me begs to tread carefully, uneasy in the presence of a convicted felon. The louder part of me warms to his presence like it's the most natural thing on earth.

He ponders the question for a few seconds, genuinely thinking about it.

"It's pretty much what you'd imagine. Orange Is The New Black minus all the hot lebian sexcapades. Pair that with sharing a cell with a serial killer and a bank robber and you've got yourself my life for the past four years."

"Serial killer as in Dexter or serial killer as in Bundy?" I interrogate, itching to know more about his time inside.

His eyes flicker for a split second, and in that brief flash, I catch something beneath the smirk—something heavier, something darker. His blasé façade slides back into place almost quickly enough to convince me it was never even there.

"Unfortunately, serial killer as in Bundy," he says, but then a flicker of amusement crosses his face. "Funnily enough, the bank robber's name is actually Dexter."

The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them. "What were you in there for?" I immediately wish I hadn't asked. It's not like I really want to know, but curiosity has a way of getting the better of me. I watch him, waiting for an answer, and for a moment, the air seems to thicken. The room feels like it's shrinking, like he's weighing whether to give me a piece of himself or not.

Instead, he breathes a laugh at my blunt outburst.

"Now that's a story for another time, Evie."

I roll my eyes again and turn back to the pantry to dig out the chocolate biscuits I'd hidden away.

"What about you, though? You enjoying the whole nursing gig?" he asks, clearly more interested in me than my junk food choices.

"Love it." I stuff a biscuit into my mouth, dunking it in my hot chocolate for good measure.

He raises an eyebrow, a silent prompt for me to elaborate. When I don't, he gives me a little nudge.

"What do you love about it?"

"I love taking care of people," I say, sipping my hot chocolate. "Even on their worst days, when they're at their lowest, I get to be there for them. To make sure they're treated with dignity and respect. And being there, when someone breathes their last breath, with no family around, just me and the other nurses holding their hands, telling them it's going to be okay... It's a privilege."

He listens, taking in my words with that intense, thoughtful gaze.

I wasn't expecting to share that much, but I'm not one for small talk. And after four years in prison, I doubt he's interested in anything shallow.

Trying to lighten the mood, I tease, "Plus, who doesn't love the whole naughty nurse kink, right?"

Without missing a beat, he bursts out laughing, the smirk creeping back onto his face.

"That's a pretty sexy kink, Evie." He leans in closer, voice dropping lower. "Funnily enough, I've always preferred the best friend's sister genre on Pornhub, though."

I practically choke on my biscuit as I hear the words leave his mouth.

"Oi, fuckface, bring us another beer, won't ya?" I hear one of the boys call from the living room, with a chorus of others chiming in for their own round.

Their presence in the other room had genuinely slipped my mind since entering the kitchen and I find myself wondering if Dylan had come in here just to bleed us dry of our milk supply or if perhaps the social setting was becoming overwhelming after so long away.

Not giving myself time to dwell on the details, I repeat what Liam had just called him, "Goodnight, fuckface."

I make a dash for the stairs before Dylan has a chance to throw a retort my way, pocketing a handful of biscuits on my way out.