part 2/blurb because I’m obsessed with him (and I was bored at work)
He’s usually stoic and professional. Not a single curse slips out of his mouth. Ever. But there are mornings when he comes back all bruised and fucked up, and he looks at you like you owe him something. He doesn’t even seem like the friendly type to get pissed at bars and punch strangers. He doesn’t have a girlfriend he can drink with. That’s one of the mysteries about him. Another is the disappearances you can’t figure out, of all the people who called you names or so much as glared at you.
He doesn’t smile, or rarely does. Often at you. Only at you, come to think of it. Eye contact with him is so intense it’s borderline violent.
On a particular day when you’ve got to be holed up for your own security (he won’t give much information when you ask why, though his jaw ticks like it kills him not to say anything), he paces the length of the porch and checks his watch regularly. It’s clear no one’s about to blow up the house or tie you up in a basement. There’s someone else making the rounds farther out and not a single soul knows where you are.
The winter wind howls ominously, whistling through the cracks. Of course, you care. You’re human. And he’s just another human, though hired and paid to make sure you’re safe.
He cranes his neck toward you as soon as you start sliding the glass door open. He’s aware of every sound.
A week before, he knocked on the door six seconds after you broke a glass in the kitchen. He listens to you humming a song when you’re bored. He listens when you’re on the phone too, though he wouldn’t admit it. That’s not part of his contract.
"Come in. I’m not gonna get killed while you’re inside for five minutes."
"Don’t laugh about this."
His voice is thick and raspy. Each word is short and bitter, though it sounds like he’s really not joking about that.
"I’m not. It’s all safe around here; you’ve made sure for the past three hours. I’m just saying you can at least take a break." You wait, but he doesn’t move. "Please. For me."
You doubt your sweet speech relaxes him, but his shoulders slump the tiniest amount, and he reaches for the steaming mug you’re holding. His fingers graze yours, and you swear a spark of electricity jumps between your skin.
"God, your hands are frozen," you mutter.
Of course he doesn't reply.
He's supposed to care for you. Not the other way around.
No one mentions it again. He doesn’t say a word for the next two days, keeping himself trapped outside. The house is forbidden place for him, but what if you ask him to come in? No, he’d never cross the threshold. He cares too much about his responsibilities to make that happen.
He doesn’t even budge when you lie on the sofa facing the glass doors, your pretty legs on full display. It’s a test.
Through the window, his stare scorches your cheeks, hot and unrelenting. You force your expression to remain neutral, unbothered, even though you’re sure you’re not fooling him. You were never good at acting, and if you could hear your heart beating like that, then he probably can too.
Right then, you imagine his gaze darkening. One hand trapping you against a wall, the other gripping the hemline of your dress and impatiently dragging it up your bare thighs, or pulling you onto his lap in front of the fireplace.
He wouldn’t be gentle, and anyway, you wouldn’t want him to be. There wouldn’t be any barrier anymore. He’d keep you safe in another way, using his body too.
His gaze shifts. He looks like he’s sucking in a lungful of air. And the next second, his stiff back is to you again, reminding you he’s only there for the money. The rules are meant to be followed, but he still allowed himself to teeter on the edge for a second too long.
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