Uppercut {a pedro pascal au}

seven {b}

hi angels! this chapter entails the same scene from the previous one but from pedro's pov

if you feel like commenting, please do! (it keeps me motivated and i would love to read your reactions </3)

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Pedro

The house is deadly silent when I get in at eight pm. I kick off my shoes and discard my gym bag in the foyer. All lights are off downstairs.

My feet take me to my son's nursery first where I find him sleeping deeply. I kiss his forehead tenderly and go in search of Maisy.

I knock on her door once, then twice. No answer. I check my notification centre on my phone for any texts from her. None. I knock once more, calling on her before pushing open the door with my palm spread flat on it.

She's in the centre of her room, Airpods in her ears and she sways along to the music. She's dressed in grey sweatpants and a tight-fitting black crop top that accentuates her trim waist. Her eyes are closed, her head is back, and she's just letting it out, her cherry lips mouthing the lyrics.

My thoughts about her are smack dab in my face. She is tragically beautiful.

She slow dances and reaches up with a hand to stroke her cheek. The movement makes her shirt rise up an inch, revealing a stripe of her milky skin and her belly button.

For a split second, I think I see her without any filter. In that moment she's totally unguarded and the outside reflects the in, her inner torment. She's raw and woundable, I realize.

I stand there, my hand on the doorknob, unmoving. I should back out of her room, give her her space and not invade it like I'm doing now.

She must feel my eyes on her because her eyes flutter then snap wide open. She jumps a little, clutching at her chest. "Jesus Christ, you scared me," she gasps.

"Shit, sorry, didn't mean to pry," I rush out.

I don't miss the tremble in her hands as she takes out her Airpods, and the desolate look in her big brown eyes grips my heart.

"Hey," I rasp. "Everything okay?"

"I—I, yeah. Everything's okay," she lies and I can tell.

"Are you sure?" I probe, edging closer. "It doesn't seem to me everything's okay."

"No, please, don't," she chokes on her words, her bottom lip quivering. "Just—just don't care about me, okay?"

For a second I get worried that something is wrong, really wrong, wondering if she's gotten bad news.

"What's going on?" I urge, anxious now.

She pinches her eyes shut, shaking her head at me.

As much as I don't want to, it bothers me that she's hurting. I wish she would talk to me.

She begins snapping the rubber band encircling her wrist. It's enough to redden her skin. I've noticed it before, it's one of her nervous mannerisms, the same as when she fiddles with her necklace.

Watching the impulsive way she pulses the band against her skin, a flash of unease courses through me.

"Sweetheart?" I keep my voice low and calm.

She tries to sidestep me, but I catch her wrists. I rub my thumbs on the inseam of her wrist.

"Hey," I croon, "You can be vulnerable with me, you know?" I let go of one of her wrists and tip up her chin with my index finger, forcing eye contact.