hostile//fillie

chapter eighteen.

A/N: sorry if there's typos!

  **finn's pov**

She just came bolting right out of the house, before I could even merely attempt to secretly sneak around to get inside, or before I could have the slightest gain of control to balance myself while I was on my bike, and not have to make some dramatic scene by crashing down onto the hard ground right in front of her.

Which is just fucking fantastic, because that's just an indicator of Millie's awareness of what's been going on.

Now, she really knows about us secretly staying here.

Pup came running right out, low and behold, confirming any and all suspicion the British girl may have had previously.

   And that is the worst case scenario of them all, because undoubtedly, we're going to be forced to leave.

  Our feet simultaneously and carefully lift up onto each concrete stair after the tug-of-war like conversation that we shared just several seconds prior regarding her questioning and my denial, Millie's strong grasp of her fingers held around my wrist that was dangled over her shoulders, keeping leverage on my involuntary weakness, as she patiently guides me towards the entrance towards the house, scattered crickets having the time of their life in the depth of the grass strands spread across the area of both yards.

"What the hell happened to you, Finn?" Millie asks once again into a concerned tone of voice, after she'd multitasked, closing the front door behind us while grasping onto my weak figure, the feeling of the brown of her eyes staring right at the side of my assumed bruised face, my own trailed directly in front of us, as she cautiously guides me towards the nearest bathroom on the lowest floor, light winces and groans escaping my lips with each step we took, due to the agonizing feeling of anguish pulsating in every direction of my body.

Why does it matter?

Why is she even doing this?

I'm nothing to her, she's nothing to me, and that's how it's always been.

We brutally fucking hate each other, for crying out loud.

I guarantee that if I weren't hurt, then she would've told me to fuck off and leave, the moment I approached the premises of her home.

Because that's just something Millie would do.

    "I don't want to talk about it." I answer briefly as we enter inside of the bathroom, Pup's finger and toenails clacking against the hardwood floor, following after us, as I can't help myself from feeling embarrassed, and humiliated about the entirety of the situation regarding my bruises and bloodied face, unwilling to have a one-on-one conversation with the girl who's been nothing but cruel.

  She doesn't need to know anything about me.

   She doesn't care to think about how my life is, and she's said so herself.

That's why this gesture that she's presenting, of bringing me inside, and trying to help me in a time of need, isn't making a single strain of any sense.

   We grow silent because of her comprehension to halt the persistent questioning, as she alas gets me sat down onto the lid of the closed toilet seat, that built up pressure from limping relieving off of both of my legs, as the sound of water running smoothly into the base of the sink echoes through the enclosed space, the area of her exposed spine due to the thin black tank top she wore facing me while she unrolled a single paper towel from its holder, muscular curves and outlines shaping each limb that was viewable of her shoulders.