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He slept in the kitchen chair that pokes holes in your back.
He held my hand, and—a brief look at a bowl filled with water and a damp hand towel hanging from the side—apparently taken care of me as well.
Frustration builds in me and dies as quickly as it grows.
He said that he loved me.
He went about doing all these things for me and this fluttering in my heart, this warmth, I can’t control it.
I was horrible to him, and he keeps coming back, undaunted, unfazed, watching me with a quiet intensity that is all the more powerful.
I rub my hands over my face. This man is crawling under my defenses, breaking down one wall after the other. And I am letting him.
Elation and misery are two emotions that I wouldn’t have thought could be experienced simultaneously, but right now, their combination churns in my gut like a festering wound.
I curl my toes to remind myself that I can and let out the breath I am holding in.
My body still feels weak and tiredness clings to me as I stand up and locate my shoes.
My clothes didn’t change, and I blink when I realize what he could have done if he wanted to but, for some reason chose not to.
My steps are unsteady, but I find my balance as I make my way into the living room. A packet of chips lay open on the coffee table next to a laptop whose screen is still turned on. I give it a glance before dismissing it entirely.
“Fuck! Shit!”
The roar comes from the kitchen and startled, I cover the remaining steps with long strides that leave me a little out of breath.
Zayn is holding the jar of coffee beans with more than half the contents on the ground. His hair is sticking up, and he is glaring at the jar as if it is responsible for this calamity.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and his face looks worn out, if not for the animated look of frustration on his face.
“Fuck you,” he tells the jar, scowling, and I can’t help the hysterical choking laughter from bubbling up.
He immediately looks up and freezes.
I am leaning against the doorjamb for support when our eyes meet for a few seconds, and my throat goes dry as it always does when he looks at me in that particular manner. Although, now I see that it is every time he focuses all his attention on me.
“What’re you doing out of bed?”
I tear my gaze away from those glacier eyes and study the mess on the floor. “What happened here?”
“I need coffee,” he says as if that is all the explanation needed.
“Oh,” I say lamely. “You gonna clean that up?”
“Eventually.”
He studies me and there is something deeper in the silence, an awareness that I subdued until now. Under the light, his eyes almost seem darker, hungrier, as if he scented something.
I clear my throat. “I want some coffee too if you’re having any.”
He blinks languidly and then turns to frown down at the jar he is still clutching. “You can have juice. Doctor’s orders. No coffee, no tea.”
I make my way to the kitchen table and sit down, musing on whether I want to fight him on his.
All my defenses are laid bare.
Right now, it is better if I don’t.
