I’m kind of giving college student with this behaviour and let me tell you, I am noteating.
Taking an apple from the fridge, washing it, and doing what every other human in this world would consider an abomination, I peel the skin before biting into it.
Hip against the small island, eyes through the window upon a mountain in a distance, and a subtle, slithering sense of peace overtakes my ability for overthinking to give birth to anxiety. I am stopped. For now.
My parents would love Lucerne.
It’s the perfect place for them. Kind of like Cornwall but multiplied by a million.
When I discard the end of the apple into the compost, that’s when I feel it.
Feel him.
His presence is a looming shadow behind me as I busy myself by scrubbing at the dishes. Each movement, each dish cleaned, he stands there. Not a word, nor a sound, but being annoyingly overwhelming, nonetheless.
I’m done with the dishes, he’s still here.
I open the cabinet to put said dishes back, he’s still here.
I take out the same dishes because they’re still wet, and well? He’s still here.
With more force than needed, I put them down on the counter and turn around to face him.
Dark golden-brown hair flops over his forehead, strands of them sticking out in places like he uses his thick fingers as a comb. His biceps bulge from beneath the black muscle T. I’d love to slip it off of him with my teeth. For research purposes, of course.
Dean is… Dean. But takes up my space in a way I didn’t notice before.
It’s because we’re out of the office.
Because he’s invading my personal life and I can’t tell him to step out. Somehow, we’re in the same space at the same time in this exact moment of history and there’s no explanation for it.
When my chest falls down, his moves up.
He steals the air from the room—fromme.
I stare at him. He stares at me. We simply… exist in the crevices of each other’s eyes.
Something crackles at a distance.
Exasperation forces its way out of me, “Mr. Vuk, can I help you?—”
“Dean,” he interrupts with a thick tinge of depth to his tone.
More than a second later, I compose myself. “Dean,” I emphasise this time. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Or at least tell me why you’re here when you knew I’d be here.
“You gave your food away,” pointing out the obvious. “Why?” Demanding. Under other circumstances, that’s my kryptonite.
“Katarina wanted it,” I shrug. Thought we all knew that.
His gaze hardens.
What is he seeing on my face that has him peeling away all the expressions I carefully built?
“The broth was for you.”
Tantalizing heat ropes itself up my throat and ties itself around my eye sockets at the gentleness of his tone. At the kindness and human decency of his behaviour. Freaking hypocrite. “I never asked you to do that,” I glare. “If you’re looking for appreciation, then you can take your kindness elsewhere,Dean.”
