trouble | i.g

twenty eight - "group therapy"

Bella's POV

"God damn it." Ian sighed, "It's doing the thing again."

I stood in front of Ian's fogged bathroom mirror, a towel wrapped tight around my shoulders. My clothes, which were soaked from the shower we just shared, clung to my skin and dripped a tiny puddle on the linoleum under my feet. Ian had changed and stood behind me with a wide toothed comb in his hand. He was attempting to brush through the snarled mess that was unfortunately termed as my hair, and kept getting it caught.

"Shit." He observed, scratching his chin and staring at the back of my head. I watched his reflection in the mirror. A good distance taller than me, built lean and slender and made to look mean. I, on the other hand, seemed to look younger when I got wet. My hair was pressed against my face, making my eyes look larger, and under the fluorescent lighting my skin was paler than it actually was. The towel dwarfed my frame and I was struck with how childish I looked.

"I say we just cut it out." Ian continued, "I think I have some steak scissors in the kitchen."

"Well, gee whiz." I exclaimed with false sincerity. "What a neat-o plan! Chop off a chunk of my hair haphazardly with scissors designed for succulent cuts of meat, why don't you?"

Ian leaned down next to me, smelling strongly like axe and warmth. "Bella, that mouth of yours might get you in serious trouble one day." He retreated and tackled the job of untangling the comb. "Can't you tell your hair to like- release it?"

"I don't think you understand how girls hair works. If I could move it mentally, that would be how I strangle my victims."

He paused for a second. I watched his reflection carefully as he stared at the back of my head, lips parted as though to say something, before they closed into a secretive smile and he shook himself lightly. "Bella Young." he said, just because he liked saying my name, "Bella Young."

"Who?"

He shook himself again. "Oh god, my Bella Young."

He eventually managed to save the comb and successfully straighten out the mess. His slender fingers raked through the now soft hair, twirling the ends. This was the moment I feared; the part where we had to face the problem, the one where I was afraid of touching and nobody knew the reason, and where Iggy was unconscious with possible head trauma caused by my freak out. Although my medical diagnosing skills were lax, the fact that he had tried to swallow a kitchen sponge whole raised some alarm.

I sighed and leaned backwards into his chest, letting his arms wrap around me and felt his lips touch my forehead. We were both waiting to approach the problem- I think. Ian went first.

"Take off your clothes."

Okay, maybe I was wrong. I blinked in surprise and looked up at him. "Pardon?"

"You heard me, sweetheart." He said slowly, pulling the towel off me with flourish. I had jumped in the shower still in my yoga clothes, and the fabric was itching. "Wet clothes. Put on dry ones." He continued, hooking his finger into the waistband of my shorts and pulling them away slightly. "You've left enough clothes around here to create quite a collection."

"I mean, well-um, okay." I said, crossing my arms and grasping the bottom hem of my tank top. I waited for the sound of his retreating footsteps, and looked up in confusion to find him still standing there. "Look away."

He leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed over his broad chest. "You and I both know I can't promise that."

"Then leave."