Cold Hearts and Stubborn Minds

16

Monday

I have so many questions on my mind, though I don't seem to have the courage to ask them. I don't know why, as I ask questions all the time. Maybe I'm slightly afraid of Dylan now, after all that he said. He can hurt me, that's a given.

I sit here, a few inches away from the entrance of the cave, breathing in the cold air. It reminds me of Dylan, of course. I feel my cheeks warm slightly and sigh. Every single time.

He's out, going back to the house to get a few things. My suitcase, for one. I don't know what personal belongings he would get for himself. His sketchbook, maybe?

I place my forehead on my knees. Always so many questions. Even now, almost halfway through the month, I only knew a few things about him. He's still so damn mysterious.

~~

A few hours later, when I had returned to the bedroom and was examining the walls, Dylan returns, looking a bit breathless. His cheeks are flushed pink, though I figure that it's from the cold. It's still cute, though.

He props the suitcase against the wall, then heads back out of the room without so much of a word.

I raise an eyebrow at this and follow him. He comes to a stop at the edge of the cave, looking at the landscape below. His brows were furrowed, giving him a handsome concentrated look, and also a worried one.

"Dylan?" I ask, standing a few feet behind him.

He glances at me and sighs, then looks back towards the forest. "When I went into the house, they couldn't see me, but I'm sure the annoying one sensed my presence," he says, crossing his arms.

Yet another question. I look up at him again, as I had been scanning the forest as well. He meets my eyes and chuckles slightly. "You have questions, don't you?"

I nod. "Yeah," I say, my hands in the pockets of my sweater. He smiles slightly and my heart misses a few beats. Damn it.

Dylan walks over to me, taking one of my hands in his, brushing his thumb over the palm of it. His expression was slightly strained, though, and I feel like there was more to the story than what he said.

I do trust him to tell me when he wants to. I have a lot of other questions on my mind anyways.

I let him lead me back into the bedroom. We sit down on the bed, across from each other. He brushes his thumb against my palm once again and I shiver, blushing slightly now. He lets my hand go, though I didn't really want him to.

I place my hands in my lap, then blurt, "So, first of all, where do you get all this stuff?"

Way to start.

He chuckles again and meets my eyes. It felt like he was pulling all my secrets out again, even though I didn't have many.

"I got them from my ancestors, my elders, my parents. Gifts, I suppose," he says, though his expression darkens at the word parents. What happened to them?
Did they leave too?

"They're very nice," I say, skimming my fingers over the fabric, the embroidered design on it. "So... Why are your wings so sensitive? I had a pet bird once and it never reacted when I pet its wings."

He stiffens slightly and I almost think that was a bad question to ask. "Well," he says, looking at me and smirking, raising an eyebrow slightly. "I'm not a bird, am I?"

I blush slightly. His smirking was incredibly attractive. Everything about him was, really.

"No, you're not..." I say, rubbing the back of my neck sheepishly before going to ask my next question. "How did you learn to paint so well?"