•DESTINED•

•Chapter Twelve•

He holds the page to his face, straightening himself from against the doorframe.

Eyebrows raised.

Which drawing is that?

I freeze.

"This is really good," he says.

I can't breathe.

Then he hands the page to me and I nearly soar with relief.

It's the very first sketch I drew from when I got here.

The cows in the corner of the page, the chicken and the very first flower I'd picked when is got here in the centre of the page.

I forced myself to smile through the slamming of my heart.

"You got anymore?" He asks inquisitively.

"No," I lie, heat rushing to my cheeks.

He frowns slightly, "How come?"

Because the rest is all drawings and sketches of you, "Because I've been busy," I say instead.

He nods, not questioning me further.

He walks over to my bed and sits down.

I don't stop him, I just shove the rest of the loose sketches- the crumpled ones of him- into the drawer.

I turn to him but then my heart sinks.

Air won't come into my lungs fast enough.

I feel ready to fall over and die.

Okay, maybe I'm being a little dramatic but it's how my heart felt as it banged against my ribcage.

He was flipping through my sketchpad, slowly.

With each page he turns, the corner of his mouth lifts further.

He meets my eyes briefly through his eyelashes, a facial expression almost unreadable crosses over his face before he continues to flip the pages.

Then, I act.

I lurch forward, stunning him because he reclines on the bed against my bed as I fight for my sketchpad.

He laughs and keeps the pad away from reach with one hand, his other hand pushing against my stomach.

"Give it to me!" I shriek.

He drops the sketchpad on the floor and lays there, my body on top of him in attempt to reach for my sketchpad.

When I slide away from where he dropped the pad, my hands had slid to his chest. Before I could push myself up from his chest, his hands rest on the curve of my waist.

My breath catches when I realize how close my face is to his.

His emerald green eyes capture me. I pause, feeling no doubt that he could probably feel my heartbeat.

Then he grins and I move myself off his body.

"You don't know what boundaries are, do you?" I snap, acting as the victim in this situation even though I was the dumbass that decided to draw attention to the sketchpad in the first place when I should have just left it there.

"I do," he gets up and stretches like a cat, "but I guess your brain doesn't."

"Excuse me?" I glare him.

"Well, as beautiful the drawings are, none of those scenes happened between you and I which means you've been doing some fantasizing," he says tartly, "there should be some kind of boundary as far as your drawings are concerned."