concealed | ✗

two

My mouth hangs open at his declaration.

"No way,'' I state with finality, "please go find another place to stay. I'm not risking it." His eyes widen only for a second before he slips back into the easy smirk he seems so fond of using.

"Okay," he says, shocking me. He disappears back into my bedroom before returning with his shoes and shirt in hand. He pauses, his hand on the doorknob.

"You know I only meant until morning right?", he says lazily before swinging open the door, "Then you can either let me go or turn me in". He turns away, his back receding down the hall, his shirt thrown over his shoulder. I swear under my breath before taking a deep breath and running after him.

"WAIT! You can stay the night,'' I shout breathlessly as I catch up to him. He turns around with a triumphant smile and a twinkle in his eyes. Then, I realize that he must've known that I would do that all along. I glare at him as he flashes his dimples at me, and I try my best to keep my own smile off my face.

We walk back down the hall down to my room. I immediately start pulling out the couch in my living room and setting it up with sheets. I can feel his stare on my back as I do so. I wait for him to pitch in for an few minutes and when he doesn't, I stand up straight and whirl around.

"You gonna help me set up your bed or stare at my nonexistent ass all day?", I snap, embarrassingly blurting out the last part. He smirks and lifts himself off of the wall. Luckily, he has put his shirt back on. Although it is supposed to be white, I can clearly see the muddy stains dried onto it, making me wince in disgust. He tucks in the corner of the sheet and we pull on the comforter together, silently.

"Give me your shirt," I command. He looks up, a naughty glint in his eyes. 

"If you wanted me to undress, all you had to do was say so", he winks, pulling off his shirt in one fluid motion. I can't look away as my eyes wander hungrily over his gleaming chest again. He catches me staring and flexes his thick bicep. I roll my eyes, blushing what I'm sure is a very vivid shade of red.

"I meant so I could wash it," I say, rolling my eyes, and try to cool my face off mentally. He tosses it at me, and even though it is extremely dirty, his musky, to-die-for cologne is still clinging to it. When I am safely out of the room, I take a large whiff of it, loving the scent.

"Did you just smell my shirt, blondie?" I hear his husky voice from the doorway, making me jump in fright.

"N-no," I stammer, shoving his shirt into the washing machine, thanking my lucky stars he can't see my blazing face. I turn it on and spin around after my blush has fully subsided. I brush past him, my shoulder bumping his sturdy one, and feign nonchalance. I can hear the floorboards creak as he trails me, hot on my heels. I walk into the tiny corner kitchen and start cooking up some of my famous pasta, ignoring his heated stare at my back.

I should be scared of him.

I should have kicked him out.

I should have let him leave.

Why am I so dumb?

I smack my head with my palm, forgetting about his presence. I start slicing the onions rapidly and angrily, drowning out all thoughts of him. I keep slicing and slicing, without realizing I have slit a giant gash through my palm. I barely register his presence behind me before he lifts my palm tenderly and tilts my chin up to meet his worried gaze. I shrug and try to pull away, but his grip is firm.

"First aid is in the bathroom," I sigh, and he starts dragging me there, my short steps no match for his long strides. He pins me against the counter and reaches for the cabinet over my shoulder. His sturdy abs push against my own flat stomach as he does so. I look away, fighting a blush. He backs up and begins dabbing alcohol onto the cut causing me to hiss in pain. He looks at me apologetically before lathering it with relieving cream and gingerly wrapping it up.

"You're lucky you didn't need stitches", he says, his deep voice cutting through the silence. It is the first time he's spoken in a while. His worried demeanor drops and his easy smirk slips right back into place. He leans forward.

"Are you always this clumsy? Maybe you shouldn't live alone", he whispers, his hot breath fanning over my ear, eliciting a trail of goosebumps. I bring my uninjured hand up to his chest in an attempt to push him away, but it's like pushing a three ton boulder away. Impossible.

"P-please stop", I whimper, thinking back to what the police officer told me. He's dangerous. As if sensing my fear, he backs away immediately and shakes his head to himself, as if clearing away all of his unwanted thoughts. He strides out of the bathroom quickly. I stifle all thoughts of his haunting brown eyes that keep popping up in every corner of my brain.

What is wrong with me? I've only known him for an hour and I already can't get him out of my head.

I instantly decide to take him down to the police station first thing in the morning. I can't allow myself to have feelings for him, no matter how muscly or hot he is.

He probably doesn't think of me in the same way either. He probably sees me as an easy lay. I'm nowhere near pretty or sexy like most girls someone like him would go for.

I shake my head to clear myself of such thoughts. It doesn't matter because he'll be gone in the morning and I'll never have to see him again.

Then why does that thought make me so sad?