"Ash," he breathed, "We're getting dangerous here."
"No head?"
Something red flashed through his eyes, as the corners of his mouth tugged into a smile. "You're going to give me head, whether you like it or not. I meant that we can't turn back after...
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Kye's grip suddenly became firm, as soon as he was done with the bandages. His hand slipped down to my sore ankle and lifted it up, making me flinch and let out a whimper, grabbing his hand.
"I gotta see if it's not broken," he mumbled, taking my hands off his.
"It's not," I panted. "It's just sprained, really."
"Shut up and let me do what I do, little one." His voice was soft and hardly demanding, but I obeyed anyway.
As he gently felt off my ankle, my mind traveled back to one of the few memories I still had of dad- that weren't infected with cut off heads and torn limbs as a psychological response to my trauma-, we went on a vacation in California when I was eight.
Dad and I swam all day. Mom kept snapping pictures of every living thing that was to be seen, darting around like a happy doe, making salads and sandwiches for dad and me. It was unbearably hot, but good. It was all very good.
On the last day, I cut my foot open on a glass shard in the sea. It became infected, and we had to stay in California for a few more days to treat it. Even though it hurt like hell, I was happier than ever, feeling like I made a sacrifice for the better.
I don't remember of the hospital we had to go to, or the feverish nights, but only the evenings when mom and dad and I lay on the sofa in our holiday apartment, watching Twilight out of all the movies we could've chosen, snuggling close and sipping on ice tea, as my dad softly massaged my foot.
It felt like I was there again. With Kye.
He was done with unnecessarily touching my legs and bowed forward to reach for his whiskey and a glass. He looked so tired. I'd never seen him like this before, though I caught a glimpse when Jason came over a few hours ago.
I didn't want to talk. At all. In a normal situation, I would've asked for what he thought of my ankle, and all the other questions. It made me exhausted just thinking of them. Somewhere in my mind, I'd already come to a conclusion that'd answer it all- and it had an awful lot to do with Twilight of all things.
But thinking was for another time.
The young man poured himself a shot and sipped slowly, before starting to drink the liquor like it was water. And he refilled his glass. I watched his Adam's apple twitch under his skin as he drowned himself in alcohol, before lowering my gaze to his hand on my legs.
I wanted comfort again. My head was aching, and he had the perfect remedy.
So, I took his large hand within both of mine and lifted it up to my head, bowing forward to touch it sooner. His fingertips grazed over my forehead, but I felt nothing. I glanced up and sent him a weary, questioning look.
A soft smile played around his lips, regarding me and all my pettiness. "It doesn't work if you force it, little lady."
I almost moaned at him calling me lady. It was still condescending on his tongue, but it was better than 'one'. Much better. It meant the world, somehow.
