Healing Melody (Very Slow Updates)

18. White Daisies

A/N:
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"Chicken noodles again?!" Malcolm cries out with dread.

I subconsciously made chicken noodles for dinner—seven days straight. 

Surprisingly, Malcolm has been getting off work on time every day, so he's been home every night for dinner.

"Fuck chicken noodles!"

The scene playing in my head pauses at Malcolm's insulting statement.

"What's wrong with chicken noodles? They fucking taste like heaven!" I shield my bowl of chicken noodles protectively, slicing Malcolm a lethal gaze from my place at the kitchen counter.

Once I'm sure no harm will come to my precious, the paused scene resumes playing, specifically the one involving tongues and teeth.

From the way I'm punching the replay button, that scene would probably hit a hundred million views if it were a YouTube video.

I sigh dreamily as I sip on my soup, relishing the flavor that will forever be a blessing to my taste buds.

The Friday night scene switches to another more recent one in my office.

Galan had dropped by during lunch hour on Monday to give me a heating pad and some ointment meant for bruises, reminding me of the brand new one on my knee.

I'd played the part of a damsel in distress just so he would apply the ointment for me.

Ridiculous, I know.

He somehow brings out the feminine side of me that has been missing for years, probably somewhere in the Pacific ocean eating seaweed and talking to sharks instead of joining civilization.

Then, we had another hot and intense make-out session, filling my office space with our soft pants and moans—we covered a lot of ground by the way.

Sadly, it ended all too soon because we both had to get back to work.

I was unreasonably overcome with gleeful satisfaction when I saw how disheveled he looked after that.

His shirt tails were hanging out unevenly, his tie was pulled loose and that beautiful shade of dark copper hair was sticking out at odd angles.

I probably looked ten times worse, but I could care less.

We couldn't meet up since then because of Galan's impromptu flight to California. He had to go there to meet a potential investor who was incredibly difficult to deal with.

Between his back-to-back meetings, we talked over the phone because usually by the time he was done for the day, I'd be asleep already.

But yesterday, he had flowers sent to my office—white daises.

And the gesture had seemed so familiar.

Memories of a time where I was chasing my dreams—still naive and gullible—had risen from the depths of a water-filled abyss formed as a result trauma, but my acquired defense mechanism kicked up, impeding them from breaking surface and taking that gulp of air, once again plummeting them into that forgotten darkness.

Confused and slightly weary from the mental distress of fighting to hold on, I'd turned my thoughts to Galan just as a headache threatened to wrap around my brain. Thinking about him had calmed my mind and brought a smile to my lips, the headache receding as quickly as it came.