I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling a sense of peace envelop me. "I never knew love could feel like this," I murmured, my voice filled with contentment.
"Me neither," he replied, his fingers gently playing with my hair. "But I wouldn't trade i...
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Amelia Harrington
After Tyler left for his business trip, I decided to make good use of the quiet house. Cooking always helped me keep my mind at ease, so I went to the kitchen and began preparing lunch. The rhythmic sound of chopping vegetables usually soothed me, but today my thoughts were all over the place. I wasn't focused, and before I knew it, the knife slipped.
"Ow!" I yelped, pulling my hand back. Blood immediately began seeping from the cut on my finger, and instinctively, I bit my lip to stop myself from making any more noise.
Wait. I'd spoken. Out loud.
Panic rushed through me. Did anyone hear me? No, that was impossible. Tyler was gone, and Lilian was outside in the garden. I quickly scanned the room, reassuring myself I was alone. A sigh of relief escaped my lips as I tried to focus on the task at hand—finding the first aid kit.
But of course, it had to be in the top cupboard. I wasn't tall enough to reach it, and as I stretched on my toes, my hand still throbbing, I felt a familiar presence behind me.
A large hand reached past mine, easily grabbing the first aid kit. My breath hitched, and I turned quickly, almost stumbling.
Tyler.
My eyes widened as my heart began pounding in my chest. What was he doing here? Wasn't he supposed to be on a flight by now? And more importantly, did he hear me? My mind raced with possibilities. Did he hear me? Was he angry?
Before I could spiral further, Tyler took my hand gently, his fingers warm against my skin, guiding me to his room without a word. His face remained unreadable, the usual playful smirk replaced by a tense, emotionless expression that unnerved me.
Once inside his room, he sat me down on the edge of his bed and carefully opened the first aid kit. He began tending to my wound with precision, his hands steady, but the silence was deafening. I glanced up at him, trying to read his expression, but his face was stoic, a mask of calmness hiding the storm underneath.
After he finished wrapping my finger in a bandage, he still didn't let go of my hand. Instead, he held both of my hands in his, his grip firm yet gentle. Slowly, his dark eyes lifted to meet mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flash of hurt in them—something deeper than I expected.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low, filled with a mixture of concern and frustration. His gaze pierced through me, and it made me feel vulnerable, exposed.
I nodded weakly, unsure of what else to do. But I could tell he wasn't satisfied with my silent reassurance. His eyes darkened, and his jaw clenched as if he were holding back something.
He sighed, his grip tightening on my hands, and when he spoke again, his voice was rough, filled with suppressed emotion. "Why, Amelia? Why did you do this?" He paused, his words laced with pain. "Was I not trustworthy enough for you?"
