𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐈 everyone knows who she is. Worldwide model, covered in many vogue magazines, walked catwalks, and runaway. But people don't know what happens behind the curtains. Despite the many scandals that have plagued her reputation...
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Lucas stumbled into my room, the door creaking slightly as he entered. I sat up immediately, my heart skipping a beat when I saw him. His face was bruised and bloodied, his usually sharp features now marred by cuts and swelling.
"What happened?" I asked, my voice tinged with worry, but he brushed me off with a wave of his hand.
"Don't worry about it, Winter. You should just worry about yourself."
His words only made me push harder. "Lucas, tell me what's wrong."
He sighed, his shoulders slumping as he finally admitted, "I got into a fight."
I threw the covers off and stood up, heading straight for the medkit I kept in the bathroom. As I grabbed it, he started to protest, his voice gruff. "You shouldn't be taking care of me."
I ignored him, walking back over to the bed. "Sit," I commanded, pushing him down gently. He sat on the edge, and I stood between his legs, focusing on his busted lip. I dabbed at it with a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic, apologizing softly when I saw him flinch. But he didn't move away, just kept his gaze fixed on me, his dark blue eyes boring into mine.
When I looked up, I noticed the black eye forming, the skin around it dark and swollen. My fingers brushed over it lightly, barely making contact. "You need to stop getting into fights, Lucas. You've been doing this for years..."
His eyes darkened at my words, and his jaw tightened as he hummed in response, a noncommittal sound that told me he wasn't going to talk about it. I didn't push any further. Instead, I focused on taking care of him, cleaning his wounds with careful hands.
It was a strange feeling, this quiet moment between us. I was used to being the one everyone worried about, the one who needed looking after. And when I wasn't, I was usually the one causing pain, the one pushing people away. But right now, it was different. I wasn't the one who was broken. For once, I was the one doing the mending.
And it felt... nice.
As I finished cleaning his cuts, I could feel the tension between us growing thicker. My hands slowed, the cotton pad stilling over his cheek. I met his gaze, searching his eyes for something, anything that might tell me what was really going on behind that steely exterior.
But Lucas was as unreadable as ever. His dark blue eyes gave nothing away, except maybe a flicker of something—something I couldn't quite place. I wanted to ask him more, to push him to open up, but I knew better. He was like a fortress, walls so high that no one could climb them.
I moved on to the next cut, my fingers grazing his skin as I worked. His breathing was steady, but I could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles were coiled tight, ready to spring at any moment. It made me feel... something. I didn't know if it was anger, frustration, or something else entirely, but it was there, simmering just below the surface.
