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When I turn the corner, my fantasy catches fire as I spot Cohen replacing a light bulb above my kitchen sink. I glance behind me at the light in the dining nook, and it’s been replaced, too.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him. “But... thank you.”
“You didn’t have much to work with, but I made you something to eat.” He nods to the counter where a bowl of mac ’n’ cheese rests, a cut up apple next to it. My stomach aches with hunger.
“Thank you.” I pick up the bowl and take a bite, letting my eyes close to savor the warm sustenance. “You’re so kind. I really… just, thank you, Cohen.”
He doesn’t acknowledge the praise, but washes his hands at my sink. “How are you feeling? Better?” he asks, inspecting me, from my face to my bare feet.
“Better, yes. Thank you. I’m just… tired. And I feel weak,” I admit. Something about admitting weakness to Cohen doesn't make me feel like a failure. Being around him is so easy and comfortable.
“The food will help. But extreme fatigue is usually caused by prolonged periods of adrenaline.”
I take a seat on the floor and watch Cohen disappear down my hall. What’s weird is that I don’t question what he’s doing. I just eat my mac ‘n’ cheese, and relish in how much better I feel now compared to just two hours ago.
He returns… with my hairbrush. “You’re too tired, I understand, but it will give you a headache to sleep with it up like that.”
I blink at him, and his knowledge of ponytail headaches. He’s clearly been in a relationship with a woman for some time in his past if he knows this. Jealousy creeps into my consciousness at his knowledge. Which is insane, so I shovel in the rest of the pasta as he drags out a folding chair from the kitchen.
He sits in it, behind me, and carefully lets my hair down from the wet bun. And slowly, as I eat slices of apples, Cohen combs out my hair.
When he’s done, he extends a hand to me and helps me to my feet. After placing my bowl in the sink, he disappears into my bedroom, telling me to stay put. I stand in my apartment, wondering so many things.
When he returns, he gives me a partial smile. “Sleep. Don’t worry about Crave. Aug knows you’re taking the day.”
My eyes fill with warmth and I smile up at him. “Thank you. I didn’t know I needed that, but I did.”
His hand falls away, and my bones feel empty.
“I’ll stand outside until I hear it,” he says, tapping the locks. Pulling open my apartment door, he steps onto the doormat. At the threshold we stand, looking at one another before Cohen leans in and pulls the door closed...
A fisheye and distorted view of Cohen is there as I press my eye to the hole, and there’s a skip behind my ribs when he says, “Let me hear it lock, Scarlett.”
I lock the door, and watch until he’s so far down the stairs that I can no longer see him.
When I go to my room, I find the bed turned down, my phone plugged into the charger, my dirty clothes put inside the hamper, and the blinds and curtains closed. Sliding my legs under the sheet, I lie back against my pillow and stare up at the ceiling.
There’s a stirring between my legs, brought on by all of Cohen’s care. And for the first time in a really fucking long time, I realize… that stirring is arousal.
And I don’t just want to touch myself.
I wanthimto touch me.
twelve
cohen
That fulfills me, and that’s fucking terrifying.
After leaving Scarlett’s apartment, I went back to work and explained things to Aug. I’d relayed to him that Pete showed up and essentially fucking harrassed her all night.
That’s when he’d started to share with me some of the horrendous things Pete had done.
Let actors enter her bare when she was in bondage scenes and couldn't physically or verbally say no.
Cut her pay if she cried on set.
I stopped Aug there. These revelations angered me, but the reason I cut him off wasn’t to abate my anger. It was for her. They’reherstories to tell, her trauma to share. If she wants me to know, I should hear it from her. Not from Aug.
