#wldg

You hit someone.

You think you did. You're not sure.

Your hands are locked on the steering wheel. Your knuckles have gone white. You can hear your heart in your ears, high and shrill and unnatural.

You open the door. Not because you're ready, but because you need to.

Your legs shake. You're trying to walk normally, as though someone didn't just crash into your windshield. Your body won't cooperate.

Still, you force yourself forward. One step. Then another.

The man’s lying there, sprawled like a rag doll in the middle of the road.

You crouch in front of him, breath catching. Blood pools beneath him—too much blood, and from where, you can’t even tell. The sight makes your eyes blur, your stomach flip.

Your mouth works before your brain does. “Hello…?”

The man almost immediately groans, shifting slightly, though you suspect it's more of a spasm. 

With the sign of sentience, panic builds into your body, and you clutch his shoulders, “Hello?! Hello, are you okay?” 

You let go of him and fumble with the phone in the back of your pocket. You get the password wrong a few times in your state of alarm, and it just makes you panic even more. 

You want to say something to relieve him of the agony he must feel. But all you can come up with is, “I'm going to c-call an ambulance…” You slur your words as you fumble with the buttons.

“Wait,” He says, perfectly clear. Though his voice is a little raspy. 

You immediately obey, looking up from your phone to the man, “W-What is it?” 

“Don't call an ambulance.” 

Your heart is beating loudly, pumping so much oxygen in your blood you're somehow growing woozy, “Okay…”

He sits up with a grunt, clutching his side. Your eyes stare lifelessly at his face, purposefully avoiding the wound.

“Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?” You speak slowly, your tongue feeling heavy in your mouth. You're not sure you're pronouncing words properly.

He shakes his head, and you notice a shaky grin on his face. You suppose because he is scared that he is going to die, “No. No hospital.” He says quietly.

You speak before you think, “Please, I’ll cover the expenses–” 

He lets out another loud groan, and the shrill sound in your ears grows louder.  Till all you can hear is ringing.

“No…” His face is beading with sweat and he’s breathing shallowly, “Can you… can you stitch me up?” 

No. You’re not a doctor. You don't even know what that would mean. “I have a first aid kit in my car.”

He speaks to you calmly, “Alright." He breathes, labored and short, "Then go get it.”

At his sudden sharp tone, you snapped out of your brain fog and got up, bambi-scrambling to your car. You find that familiar white box you've never used in the passenger seat compartment. With shaky hands, you set it down on the asphalt, and click open the latches. 

You spot bandages, gauze, tape, and pain relievers. Disposable gloves, scissors, and tweezers take up a corner. A helpful red and white pamphlet is taped to its lid.

You stare at it all for a long time, then shakily start to rifle for something useful in this situation.

“Can you go a bit faster, sweetheart?” You hear him tell you, almost like a taunt, “You don't want a criminal record this young, do you…?” 

You can't grace him with a response; your mind is not on Earth. You take some antiseptic, and look towards him. He's already presenting his wound to you. 

Fuck.

You resist a gag because you know you’ll end up immediately throwing up. You want to pass out and never wake up after this. It's so bad. It looks really really bad and it's pulsing. Oh my god it's pulsing and it's bleeding so much. Oh God… 

You don't understand… You think as your brain thuds against your skull, Why hasn't someone driven by? Did the neighbors not hear the crash of a body colliding with your windshield? Making a huge crack onto it? Did they not hear your car skidding to a halt? Or the way your heart beat so much it was about to jump out of your chest?

You don't understand. 

You feel a hand coming on your shoulder, snapping you out of your panicked fit, “Easy there, sweetheart,” He tells you, boredom seeping into his tone, “Calm down. It's fine.” 

You don't know when you started sobbing, “It's not fine. You’re going to die.” 

He snorts, “I ain’t gonna fuckin’ die.” 

You can't help yourself when he gathers you in his arms, shushing you. You feel the warm wetness of his blood against your side, but you don't care. You cry into the crook of his neck. Confused. Confused on why this is happening to you and why nobody is coming to help. Why…

“Are you sure?” You ask, shakily. 

“Pretty fuckin’ sure,” He tips your chin to look up at him. His pupils are blown wide, but other than that, he looks fine… His skin color is a normal shade, too. In fact, it even seems to be a bit ruddy… 

He moves a few stray hairs out of your face, “Would you feel better if you stitched me up at your house?” 

You nod gratefully, sniveling and heaving, but grateful for the opportunity. Grateful that he isn't mad at you. Or sad that he is going to die on the road. Because you’re the one already sad that he is going to die on the road. 

You stand up first, and extend your hand to help him get up. He leans his weight mostly on you, and he groans with each step you take. But you make it to the car. 

You help him to the passenger seat —trying your best to not look at his chest rapidly moving up and down— and click the seatbelt in place for him. 

“Safety first, right?” He mocks with an upturn of his lips.

Your stomach churns. 

The ride back to your house is quiet. At first, he runs his eyes along the interior of your car, curious. After a while, he just lays there, eyes closed, but breathing. You have never been so grateful that someone was breathing. 

You slow and put the car in park in your driveway. He still hasn't opened his eyes yet. 

Driving sobered you up a bit from your panic, and you’re feeling steady on your feet when you circle around and open the car door. You haven't even realized how much the car had smelled coppery from the stench of blood till you're exposed to the fresh air.

You lean across his form to unbuckle the seatbelt when he stirs, like he woke up from a cat nap. You pause. 

“You’re a little touchy-feely, aren't you?” 

It's strange how there isn't even a tremor to his voice. It's all so strange, really. When will someone realize something is wrong and come help you…?

“Sorry,” You say, a little embarrassed. But you still act as his crutch as you reach your doorstep. He leans most, if not all his weight on you. He must be in a world of pain, poor thing... And he still had the decency to help you calm down. You need to get your mind straight and help him. 

Like he did in the car, the second he arrives in your home, his eyes rake over every every corner and crevice. 

He whistles, “You live here? Fucking cherry, babe.” 

Your home is nice. Not because you got a job and worked hard for it, but because it was inherited from your grandmother who signed the deed over to you after she was admitted to a care home. 

It's a two story open floor plan. The furniture is old. But it has its charm. 

The french windows were always open, letting in the fresh air. Tonight, the first thing you do when you get home is shut them. 

You don't know why you don't want anyone to know there is a bleeding man in your home, but suddenly the noble part of you that was willing to accompany him to the hospital and face charges for your crimes was gone. He did not want to go to the hospital, and you did not want to go to jail. Maybe you could work something out… 

For now, you grab the bigger first aid kit at the top of your kitchen cabinet. This one had much more equipment than the one in your car. 

When you pass by the closed window, the darkness makes a sort of mirror. When you see your face in the reflection, you blink. Your face is bleak and sunken. Your eyes have puffy bags under them and your hair is a mess. 

You rinse your face before going to see him again. You feel infinitely better afterwards. Not good, because you're still scared and you're feeling lost. But better. 

You spend a good part of the night learning how to stitch a wound. 

While you're watching the tutorial, he lays lazily on the couch next to you. Watching, but not with much attention. 

When you calmed down and told him you didn't know how to close a wound, but you’d be happy to hold his skin together while he stitched, he laughed in your face. 

“Well, you better fucking learn then, huh?” He had told you. 

You're not that weird. You first helped him with the bleeding and the wound’s much cleaner now. There's a warm dish towel pressed to it to stop any more bleeding. However, it's been a few minutes and the cloth is still completely white. 

He sits there. Shirtless and a little sweaty next to you. You’re not sure when he put his cheek on your shoulder. But he does. A heat blooms on the apples of your cheeks. 

“This is soo boring,” He laments. 

“I am trying to save your life…” You mutter. Not really convinced in yourself either. 

You put your phone down, confident in the technique, and take a deep breath. You spend a few moments threading the thin string to the eye of the needle, and his yawning exaggeratedly did not make your hand any less shaky.

The wounds shallower than you remember when you were scared in the dark and alone. But the pink flesh still pulses, thrumming. 

He holds the edges of his skin together like he’s half assing a task at his corporate job. You don't deter, remaining focused as the needle pierces his skin.

And so, you begin to stitch. 

There's hardly even a grunt of pain on his end. You suppose he’s tired of that. Still, the way the thin needle pierces the flesh makes your heart beat faster with fear and your hands start to get sweaty. 

You’re at it for a few torturous minutes. Finally, there's the satisfying snip of sharp scissors cutting the thread. 

You did it. You really did it. It doesn't look very pretty, but you could care less, really. He is not going to die. And you played hero. God… 

You allow your shoulders to sag and to exhale deeply. Almost immediately after, fatigue hits your body faster than you hit the… All the adrenaline keeping your form steady seeps out of your system as you begin to calm. 

You throw the dishcloth into the laundry basket and put everything back in place. You wash your hands that are already clean (hardly any blood on him by the time you started), but just in case. 

You’re beginning to feel dizzy. The events of tonight are finally starting to catch up to you. All you want to do is fall asleep on your warm bed and forget this all happened. 

From behind you, two hands creep across your waist, wrapping around it. He leans his chin on your shoulder. 

You stop. And your heart is back to beating like a hummingbird. You swallow before you speak, “...Yes?”

He hums, muttering against your skin, “Thank you. For taking care of me.” His words are breathy and have a lilt of something… devilish in them, “That was so…” He smirks, though you can’t see, “Brave.” 

Inhaling deeply through your nose, you answer, “You're welcome. And…” You swallow, genuinely guilty, “I'm sorry for what I did to you.” You can't say out loud what exactly. Not yet.

He almost says for what? Then catches himself, clearing his throat, “It's not that big of a deal, honest…” He grins, “I'm a very forgiving person, you know?” 

His hands begin to entertain themselves by moving under your shirt, feeling at the soft flesh there. You remain deathly still. 

“Listen, doll,” He starts, “You know I hate to bother a pretty little thing like you, but you wouldn't mind if I crashed here a couple days, would you?” He starts to play with the waistband of your pants, and a heat starts to pool in your stomach, “Just until I recover. Then I’ll be out of your hair. Promise…” The low timbre of his voice was starting to do things to your head. 

You don't know when you started to lean into his touch, just that you started to nod, “Yea, okay. Obviously… stay–” You choke on your words as his other hand inches towards your breasts, “Stay as long as you need.” 

Other than his unremarkably ordinary name, you’ve learned a few other unremarkably ordinary things about the man playing guest in your home: he refuses to wake before ten, won’t eat a meal without a toasted bagel on the side, has appallingly bad manners—and his piercings make his kisses cold, always leaving a shiver trailing down your spine.

It’s a gaggle of insignificant things you learn about a housemate. Yet it’s far too intimate of information for two strangers sharing a roof under—what you believe is—necessity. Whenever the discomfort creeps in, you tend to push it down. It’s too upsetting. And you’re still barely processing the fact that you just got away with a crime. Not out of wit, but because he simply allowed you to. Not dissimilar to children playing a game of house.

Likewise, he’s learned many things about you. He still blinks dumbly during your regular panicked fits, only watching as you wear down your nails and glance around nervously. But he’s learned to change the ashtray when it’s overfilling, to avoid the news channel at all costs, to tuck away scattered papers lest they overwhelm you; and at night, he replaces the logs at the fireplace, fretting over them with a poker while mumbling to you.

It’s only been a handful of days, so it’s ridiculous how easy it is to fall into a routine. This is especially true when Mark makes believe that it is routine. You feel as though you slept for a hundred years and woke up to a mystery that is your life. Unfortunately, you had let it all happen.

“We need more wood for tomorrow night,” he tells you, watching the fire catch onto the last of your supply. The sound of the crackle makes your eyes droop. “Should be a few dry ones near the stream bed. Trees that fell last winter.”

You nod mindlessly, watching the flames consume the logs with sleepy interest. Your head feels heavy, and the effects of the Tylenol are wearing off. You decided to pull an all-nighter last night, then had to start work at eight.

Unsurprising to Mark, you work from home. Though it did elicit a delighted cackle from him. But you weren’t embarrassed. Not at all. You may work from home, but he didn’t work, period.

"We could get them from the department store," You lay your head on the armrest, gathering your legs closer to you. You're already starting to feel warmer. "I can go in the morning," you utter softly.

There’s quiet as he moves the logs around with the poker, hand on his hip, complaining to himself about how their arrangement fell and soon your entire house will be up in smoke. It’s all just a dull hum to you as you grow drowsier and drowsier on your couch. Your hands find the throw behind you and pull it over your legs.

"You got tools in that shed of yours?" he asks, nudging at a log.

You nod, "There are. But I haven't been there for a long time."

"Hatchet?"

You shrug. "Maybe."

He slides the poker onto the tool stand. Either he’s satisfied with his work or he’s decided that preventing a fire in a house that isn’t his own isn’t worth his time anymore.

He gestures for you to lift your head, then settles under it. His lap is a comfortable pillow, and his hands come to rest on your head. It lulls you even deeper into sleep.

You’re not sure what you’re doing with him anymore. He’s been extra touchy ever since he got here, and you suppose it’s your fault for never denying his advances. Now, he’s comfortable enough to cross his bare feet on your coffee table.

You know your face speaks for you. You don’t even try to conceal your look of horror at his explicitly bad manners. But he always has his eyes trained on the trashy reality TV show playing above the fireplace, absentmindedly playing with his lip piercing. In layman's terms, Mark is ignoring you.

"I'll go through the shed, see what your nan thought was useful enough to keep." The sound of the fire crackling and his voice just makes you sleepier, "Then, I'll go out early tomorrow to chop up some firewood. Alright?"

He speaks as though underwater. You can’t keep your eyes open any longer. You feel the blanket being pulled over your shoulders. You nestle your head further into his lap, growing comfortable. His hands begin to smooth over your hair, coaxing you to sleep.

The headache between your brows settles into a dull throb, barely there as you slowly lose your lucidity. "I could go with you," you mumble, feeling like a pliable house cat.

You distantly hear the man above you snort, as though in disbelief.

He knows you don’t know what you’re saying, and you’re definitely going to eat up your words tomorrow. Make up some half-baked excuse about how work is killing you. If there’s anything he’s learned about you, it’s that you’re a hermit.

Still, he humors you, "Sure. We'll even take your car. We can make a little date out of it."

You don’t answer. You feel as though you’re being dragged under a peaceful, dark lethargy.

—

Every time you leave your home, you're reminded as to why you don't.

You keep your trips around town to a minimum. Barely there. And that's a good thing. You're resourceful, while taking up as little space as possible.

You make your own coffee at home, so there's no need to go to the only cafe located in the heart of town. You buy your ingredients in bulk, so there's never any need to go to the only diner a few blocks away from your home. You don't have a dog, so you don't have to walk one every morning. You skip out on most events, so you don't know anyone in town.

You're honestly not sure why you're like this. You're always tired, even when you're not pulling all nighters. Your meals are balanced. Though you suppose the only thing you do slack off on, is exercise. Maybe some vitamin D.

Still, getting out of bed seems to be an impossible chore.

Not to mention, you're sure no one in town is particularly fond of you. You're convinced it's because they can see the hollowness inside you, where your bones cave in like a bird's. Sometimes, you contemplate as to why you're alive, or what you're meant to do. You feel like a waste of air sometimes. But you're way too pussy to kill yourself.

So, like a lot of people, you suck it up and live with it.

This morning, while you make coffee for two (one black, the other with extra sugar) you finally admit it to yourself. You only let Mark stay because you're lonely, not out of altruism. You're not sure you're even capable of the latter.

You feel a little warmer knowing your only company won't be yourself. That there is someone to bicker with. Though it's mostly him complaining, and your complacence. Him yelling at the terrible couple on TV, and you giggling. You don't initiate conversation, because you're too shy.

You don't know what's different about this morning. Because this morning sucked.

"I'm excited," You told Mark, watching the way his ringed fingers leisurely grip the steering wheel. You had tried to keep the bouncing in your seat to a minimum, but it was hard, "I've never collected my own firewood before."

His eyes lazily flickered to yours, and you think you must've had a big dumb smile plastered on your face, because he mirrored it.

"That's stupid." He informed you, matter-of-factly, "Because its easy as fuck. And it saves you a couple bucks, too."

You hummed, your hands rubbing over your thighs. You were fidgeting a bunch, trying to quell the urge to run like you want to. You haven't felt like this in ages. Filled with so much pent-up excited energy.

His eyes go back to the road. He starts driving with a barely-there hand, his other arm swung over his seat. But your town is small and most people walk. You only saw a few cars on your drive to the woods.

He grinned, "Just watch and learn, babe. You'll see that I'm a fucking pro." He nods to himself, as if already picturing it, "Try not to look too impressed, but I know you'll want to, anyway."

You were far too busy trying to keep your legs from swinging like you're a child at the playground, but you still nodded, "I'll try."

"Actually I changed my mind. Don't try. Feel free to ogle, even"

You chuckled, "Alright."

Like all things, it goes bad when you think it's going good.

Mark watches you attentively, like you're the best act in a goddamn circus. He has that stupid smirk on his face that he can't seem to wipe off ever. He leans over the blunt tip of your grandmother's sharpened axe. So sharp it cuts through the grass it's ledged on. He watches you as you wane through a muddy pool of water. He doesn't even consider extending an offer to help. To him, it's funny to watch you struggle.

It was just your luck that your necklace had decided to snap and fall just as you were passing by a shallow pond. It slid over the grass on a ledge and fell into the water with an unceremonious plop!

Once you managed to collect your jaw, and Mark to quiet his snickers, you hiked up your jeans to your knees, ready to go get it where you saw it fell. But when you started looking, feeling everywhere around that spot, it just wasn't there. You've even managed to get the bottoms of your jeans soggy because you keep accidentally bending down.

You groan, squinting your eyes to try and spot something sparkly in the water. But it's useless, it's so murky you can't even see the silhouette of your bare feet right beneath you.

At the notion that the water seems to have swallowed up your nice necklace like a snake unhinging its jaw to consume prey— you slap the surface with a childish groan.

"I give up." You utter petulantly. The necklace may have been your grandmas, a pretty, simple design. May have also been a little on the expensive side. It was sweet of your grandma to leave behind for you, really. But at this point, it was also more trouble than it was worth.

You extend your hand upward, where he's standing over you, hoping he'll take it and help you up so you can just leave already.

He doesn't. Instead, he tilts his head over to a far left corner in the water. “Look there. I think I saw something catch the light.” 

You look to where he's pointing at. You squint against the slightly harsh glare of the sun. You don't see anything but more murky, gross water.

There's a big chance he only said that to try to prolong your misery for his own twisted amusement. Because now, his new favorite pastime seems to be watching the sun beat against the back of your neck as you wane through what basically was skimmed sludge.

You throw him a look. He shrugs, his plaid covered shoulders moving up with the motion. 

"Doesn't hurt to look," He reasons with a grin. 

Could hurt.

You tuck that thought away and trudge over to where he pointed to. You crouch down —making sure not to get the back of your jeans dirty again— and dip your hands into the water, feeling for a chain or a pendant.

For the first few seconds, you feel like a blind mouse fumbling through a maze, desperate for a prize—a morsel of Swiss cheese. Yours is worth more, but feels just as vital. You fumble through pebbles and grit, searching for something necklace-shaped. Your fingers graze something. Then—suddenly, and completely unlike you—your face lights up. Your smile stretches wide, so wide it almost hurts.

You feel something! You've really found it. Mark was right, it must have floated here when you had dropped down into the water. With ease, you pull it out from where it was wedged between two rocks, blood pumping into your veins from excitement. Or the heat.

Your facial expression falls a full 180 degrees when the thing you pull out isn't your grandmother's necklace, but a small, blue sea creature instead. One of which you had just impolitely dragged from its home. Its thin, delicate arms had you believing it was your necklace. You try to block out the noise of Mark laughing.

With a sigh and a small apology under your breath, you bend down to try and drop it back into the water. Just as you were about to place it back into the rock you found it on, its tendrils unfurl, writhing. It kindly attaches itself with suctions onto your hand, believing you to be a predator.

You look at it for a good moment. 

Then you scream.

You can't contain it, "Ew, ew, ew!" You wave your hand around wildly, trying to shake it off. It stays stuck and unwavering to your palm like gorilla glue.

After a few feral seconds of trying to shake it off, you manage to fling it to a random direction. On the way, you slip and end up falling on your ass from the momentum.

You emerge from the water with a loud, desperate slosh just before your face can sink.

You hear a demonic cackle of laughter as you sputter, wiping at your face with the drenched sleeve of your jacket. Your freshly washed hair is dripping, and so is the rest of you. If your throw killed the slimy, clingy thing, it was well-deserved.

You glare at Mark through wet lashes, and his obnoxious laughter fades to a titter as he sees your expression.

He decided to play nice, "Having fun over there?"

Or as nice as Mark could be, anyway.

You clumsily rise from the water, trying not to slip on pebbles, while completely soaked to the bone. The air that hits you after emerging is freezing. You feel like you just walked into a butcher's refrigerator. Your hair is sticking to your neck and your clothes to your body. Gross.

God, you hate being outside.You really, really hate being outside.

You will yourself to begin trudging through the water to the ledge where Mark is waiting at, positively dripping and feeling awful.

You grip your own arms. Your nose is the coldest. It almost stings. 

The bright sun above immediately helps to warm you up, keeping you from shivering too much. You keep your eyes on the water you wane through. A mixture of annoyance and shame welling up in you. Mostly annoyance. Also a bit of horrific, unbridled hatred for nature. You can't believe you almost took a yoga class with pine trees and the smell of wet air. It would've fucking sucked.

Just as you get close to the ledge, a reflective sheen of silver comes into view, its sharpness dangerously close to your face.

You instinctively back up, your heart still not calmed from the scare you just had of almost drowning. You see the familiar ruby red of your pendant flash against the gaps of sunlight.

It’s hung onto the blade of the axe, like he fished the necklace out with it.

You don't take it. Your heart beats a mile a minute. "Where did you find it?"

You do take his outstretched hand. “It floated over when you fell on your ass. Dumb luck, huh?” He grins.

You frown at the phrasing of it, and hook your foot onto the rock protruding. With ease, he helps haul you out of the small crater. You immediately shiver like a wet dog.

He pockets the necklace in his jeans, promising to fix it when you go back home as compensation for your troubles with a stupid smile.

Mark gratefully does not rush you while you squeeze the water out of your hair like a rag back into the pond. Your sopping wet jacket has been unzipped and peeled off of you, left to dry against a boulder. Mark feels everything for you but pity, you're sure. After all, you could see him looking at you in your skimpy tank top. The clothing sticks to you like glue, and you try to loosen it at your chest. But you're too cold and frazzled to be as embarrassed as you would have liked.

"Told ya you should've taken off your jeans before going in the water. If you had, they'd be dry now."

Yeah. Like you'd strip in front of a stranger while bending down. You've lost most of your mind, but not that much.

"Now that I think about it…" He taps his finger against his chin, "its not too late." He muses.

You don't grace him with a response.

The rest of the trek through the woods is unbearable. The air is cold, and you were sure you were going to catch a fever as it violently beats against your already wet chest. Your legs feel like jelly as you squash through the soft, wet ground underfoot.

And just your luck, a thin fog encases you. So you can't be as far from Mark as you would've liked. You're not really in a conversational mood after his idea was the one to leave you soaking wet and shivering in the middle of the woods.

As you hike walk, Mark keeps looking behind him, pausing every once in a while to wait for you to catch up. All the while, he has the axe leisurely hanging over his shoulder. Like the effort is nothing for him.

You try your best to keep your mind off the annoyance bubbling in your chest at the casual display of strength. It already hurts enough as it is, let alone without the ego bruise.

You ignore that and eye its positioning, "Is that safe?"

He looks at you, purposefully dodging your question. The reason he does that is because he is annoying. "If you're me, yeah."

You were asking about yourself.

After what feels like a torturous mile or so, Mark stops at a clearing, tucked behind a ridge of ferns. It's not as sunny here like it was near the pond, but not too cloudy either. You peek out from over his shoulder, and sure enough, a few trees lay lifeless on the ground. Where a vicious storm must've torn them from their roots.

Moss steadily eats away at the bark. The smell of rot mixes with the smell of… everything else that is nature.

There's silence as Mark scans the clearing. He takes a few steps closer, moving away from you so he can swing the axe off his shoulder comfortably. He mounts it onto the dirt without looking, and starts to scrutinize each fallen tree closely.

Since you have apparently finally arrived at your destination spot, you decide to settle your soaking wet body onto the grass, taking a break from all the walking that has been agonising for your bruised butt.

You watch him nudge a branch with his boot. It cracked clean. “This one’s good. Dry enough.” He says to you.

Though you were a little upset, you eye him curiously. You weren't sure what the criteria for firewood was. You usually pick it up at the department store, where a teenage boy with messy hair and even messier worn uniform picks them out for you.

“Least I could do.” You remember what Mark told you as he pet your hair whilst you were fading in and out of consciousness. His voice was rough, misused from hours of watching the television with rapture and constantly grunting in place of responses.

You're beginning to miss clerks, and managers. And tile floors. And walls. And warm fireplaces. Anything that screams this is an urban civilization where people live, basically.

You watch attentively as he lined up the axe, aiming it at the thickest part of the trunk. Your eyes don't look away, already anticipating the sound it'll make when the blow will land.

The first strike echoed sharply, the noise bouncing off the bark. You distantly hear the sounds of birds cawing, probably disturbed by the sound.

Thankfully, after the first time it becomes less impressive. For a while, the only sounds are the axe swinging down onto the bark, the birds, the wind, and your teeth violently chattering as you hug yourself, trying desperately to preserve warmth.

Nature was supposed to be calming, you grumble to yourself under your breath. Your eyes flit to a random direction, and you see something made a hole in the grass. You sit up straighter to see if its a deer print or something.

Its a dead bird. Lying flat on its back. 

You shudder, out of cold and annoyance. The department store and the polite clerk suddenly seem extra appealing to you at the moment. 

Settling on a stump, you look down at your dry sneakers. The only thing you're wearing that's dry. The wind is blowing stronger, making you wrap your arms around yourself tighter and it makes you miss home desperately. 

Seemingly out of nowhere, the sounds of the axe colliding with bark stop. You hear the axe being set down on a thunk of wood and then the sound of heavy boots walking across humid grass. 

You're not keen on listening to him gloat or even tease you about your current predicament. It was the last thing you wanted and it would just make you even more miserable.

When he's directly in front of you, you take a deep breath to steel yourself from the jabs that'll be thrown at you. You sniff from how cold it is and look up.

He's holding out his plaid shirt for you. 

You blink, surprised at the sweet offer coming from The Grandiose Asshole TM. His nice gestures are usually out of the blue and only when you need them. Not desire them.

Still you shake your head at his offer, taking a deep breath. "It's fine."

He cocks his head, not looking convinced. He wriggles it a bit, like he's trying to entice a puppy with a treat, "Come on. I know you want it."

You continue to utter your polite little no's. And Mark expected it. Really he did. Prepared to tease you the first one or two times. But at your insistence, the rage simmering to the surface of his skin was beginning to boil.

"Don't you get it?" He sighs, thoroughly inconvenienced, "The sound of your shivering is getting on my fucking nerves." He looks directly into your eyes, entirely serious.

You're taken aback by the sudden darkness in his tone. You grow as stiff as a corpse. Swallowing, you suddenly become aware that you are alone in the woods with a man you do not know. With a weapon only he can wield. 

Your feet brace firmer against the ground. You’re not sure where you could run to, but you were pretty fast. You could get far. And when you're close to the neck of the woods, your screams would be heard. 

All you need to make sure of is that they won’t be ignored. 

Suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts, an unexpected grin makes its home on his pierced face. As though he hadn't said anything strange at all. 

"Come on." He wriggles it again playfully, "Let me be a gentleman, yeah?"

You feel your heart pound against your ribs, like it wants out. Still, with a healthy dosage of fear, you nod. You take the shirt from his hand and slip it over your shoulders. It smells like his musky cologne, and his body heat is stuck to the thing like glue. 

Instantly, you feel better when you wrap it tighter around your body, like a big warm hug. You take a deep inhale that you hope he thinks is because you're cold and not because you're sniffing his shirt. 

You mutter a small, "Thanks," just to placate him, and to perhaps make him less murderous. 

It works, because he turns on his heels back to his makeshift workstation. He whistles like he's done philanthropic-level virtue as he walks back over to the stump. He grabs the axe, switching his grip on it a few times. You assume he's trying to show off his impressive strength, to put you in a better mood. 

He shoots you a smile over his shoulder, then a wink. Quickly, he turns back and swings at the ready piece of wood. 

You watch him snap the bark neatly in half. Then in quarters.

The cuts aren't exact, but pretty damn good. You frown. 

Fuck him. 

You try not to let the smell of damp earth overpower the cologne, so you dig your freezing nose into its collar. Your eyes flit to the muscles on his back moving with each swing.

Just because you're deeply rattled with him, doesn't mean you can't appreciate what God graciously gave him. He wears nothing on top but the wife beater he wore under that plaid shirt. You feel bad for having his shirt, but not bad enough to return the thing anytime soon. You watched his strong biceps flex as he raised the axe and the small beads of sweat that disappeared under the top… God. 

You look away, unable to help your brain from moving to less than holy thoughts, and you want your head screwed on tight while in the middle of these eerie woods. You try to remember to never come back to them again.

Just before dusk, when the sky is pink and the shadows are long, you feel warm fingers slide against your cheek, stirring you awake. You had dozed off against the stump. Upon waking up, you’re pleasantly surprised to find a towering skyscraper of ready-to-use firewood

The drive back to your cottage was short. The trek out the woods, not so much. When you finally made it to the forest's neck, you ran to your car, and ended up staying there like a sitting duck. You waited uselessly as he loaded the something-dozen pieces of log into your trunk himself. The ones he also carried through the woods…himself.

You don't understand where the strength comes from. He has a sweet tooth and practically lives on your couch, always watching trash TV. Then, he goes to bother you when he gets bored of that. Which, to your knowledge, does not expend much effort, either.

You get rid of the thought. He's injured, for God's sake.

Injured. Yet strong. Yet lazy…

Besides not knowing where the strength comes from, you also don't know where he's from. You've attempted to pry into his personal life a couple times. Just little comments or questions here and there. You try your best to come off as casual and discreet. However, each time he answers your questions vaguely or with a grunt.

Which happens to throw you off because he literally lives in your house. 

The drive back home is quiet, save for Mark's whistling as he taps the silver rings on his lithe fingers to your steering wheel. He tries to mess around with the radio, tsking when the already poor signal loses connection. His turns are starting to get sharp —a product of his annoyance— which disorient you. Other than that, Mark's proven to you today that he was an OK driver. Though you'd argue it's easy enough to drive through empty streets with minimal traffic…

He parks sloppily into your driveway. But you don't mind, your shoulders sagging in relief when you realize you're finally back home. All you want to shake off the bothered feeling the forest gave you.

He let you shower first, and said you "Needed the hot water more than me, anyway." You weren't really going to let him shower first if he didn't offer, but the sentiment is nice.

There is a shower in the guest bathroom, but he complains that it's too cold for his tastes, so he likes to use yours instead. 

In truth, you didn't like him lurking around your house while you were otherwise preoccupied, but you didn't have a choice. You were freezing and you were sure you were going to come down with a cold. 

On the bright side, at least you didn't need to take a leave of absence from work. 

You turn on the faucet to a warm setting, so you don't shock your body with a temperature change. Instantly, you sigh in relief as the warm water splashes against your body. You feel like you did when you were a kid. Swimming in your grandma's pool all day in the summers then feeling the nice, hot water of the shower afterwards like a treat.

You smile as you think about those days. You were so upset a year ago when you'd found out your grandmother had Alzheimer's. You weren't incredibly close, but you loved her. You loved her a lot. Though, you didn't listen to her a lot when she was in her right mind. She used to always dote on you when you and your mother would come stay in her summer home.

Grandma's always been cool to you when you were a kid. Mostly because you only saw her on holidays, when she always took you on vacations.

And by vacations, it's usually homes she owned in random places around the world. She used to tell you there was a time where she had one in the Hampton's, but she ended up breaking it off with the guy who owned it. She told you he was too "clingy" and bothered her far too much for her tastes. You didn't care. The ones in Yorkshire and Switzerland's countryside were more than fine by you, in your humble opinion. 

You're snapped out of your thoughts of cows with bells and England's gothic structures when the door clicks open.

You freeze. After living alone for so long, you forget to lock your doors. It's a major oversight on your part. You hold your breath as you wait for Mark to leave. 

It's fine, you tell yourself. He decided he was going to pick up a towel because he was too tired of waiting for you and wanted to use the freezing cold guest bathroom. Which is more than fine by you. He's going to leave, obviously. 

You hear the sounds of clothes dropping on your rug.

You grow deathly still, and don't dare look. Your voice comes out more high pitched than you would like. "What are you doing?"

You hear him struggling with the button of his jeans, "Relax, doll." He grumbles, fumbling with the button. He finally gets it and shucks off his pants and boxers in one go. He kicks them away, then steps into the shower behind you, "Just didn't wanna miss out on the hot water, that's all." He turns on the faucet on his end.

A his and hers shower. You've always imagined your grandmother as innocent, because she is a grandmother. But when you were touring the home for the first time and spotted…that. You couldn't believe it. And you were much too embarrassed to ask her about it when you visited the care home. And it's just poor manners to do so, really. Especially after she generously gave you this entire home.

You can feel him behind you in the spacious shower, and you can't breathe. You've always imagined the first time getting naked with someone to be romantic, sensual and slow. In the dark with a few candles organized around rose petals. You wanted to feel sexy, while feeling loving kisses placed on your neck…

Not this! Not out of stupid convenience.

You take a deep breath and suck it up. You know you're not going to say anything about it. He knows you're not going to say anything about it. So you don't bother to complain.

You're not sure how long you've been staring into nowhere when you begin to calm down. The heat from the shower and the warmth from him behind you help relax your taut muscles just a little so your shoulders can slack. 

A stupid, touch-starved, virgin part of you screams for him to turn around. Wishing that he would hold you and give you those same cold kisses you get from his snake bites.

A saner, rational, and also virgin part of you tells you to just get on with it so you can get out of the shower already. Make sure nothing unnecessary happens between the two of you — more than it already has — and grab your robe. Too many mistakes were made and now's not the time for another.

Too many mistakes to turn back, the depraved part whispers to you like the devil.

There's no such thing, your holier than thou side tells you.

You hear him uncapping a bottle of shampoo, but you keep still. Though the idea of him washing just his mohawk is amusing to you. 

It’s not until you see some of the suds circle at your feet and smell the scent of your cinnamon shampoo do you hear him speak, “If I were you, I’d hurry." There's that taunt in his voice, "Unless you want your ass to freeze even more?” 

Sighing, you barely lift your head when you see a hand holding out your bottle of shampoo. You look behind you, to see if he’s turned around– but he actually still has his back facing you, handing you the bottle from an awkward angle to maintain your privacy. 

You swallow, a small flush spreading to your cheeks. You didn’t offer him that same grace, even if it was purely by accident…

Still, you can't stop looking, the muscles on his back are very well defined, the memory of watching them flex while he grunts, swinging the axe onto the bark is still fresh in your perverse mind.

Your gaze unwillingly continues down to his behind… Hello sailor. 

When you look up again, you find his eyes on yours, and you resist a yelp, body going still. His soft eyes look at yours, honey brown and golden. 

Fuck. You're so embarrassed. At this point, you're not even faulting him for all that he's done to you. Every boundary crossed like a childish game of skipping. It's your fault for being such a repressed wimp.

Instead of cursing at you, he smiles, “Tricked ya.” The words barely register before his smile widens to a grin.

Taken aback, you blink, "Tricked…?" You echo, confused. Only to find his eyes raking over the back of your body as well.

You don't know if it's possible to become both lightheaded and as heavy as a boulder. But you do now. It's like your feet cannot support your weight anymore and your knees will give out.

You know that if you did, Mark would catch you. 

You dispel that egregious thought immediately.

He chuckles, finding your confusion cute. Like he'd walk into a shower with a girl naked just to shower. That trick is so old. Empty talk about saving water, or wanting it to be hot. He thought you wouldn't fall for it. Maybe slap him across the face. But you really believed in his innocence, when he's shown you anything but. God… you were too cute– maybe even a little dumb for your own good sometimes.

And besides, he has a few things to repent for. More than a few, actually. And he knows a good way to pray for that forgiveness. A very good way. That he’s good at. Yeah. 

"Ya know," He starts, your body goes hot, and not from the water. "I didn't really get to thank you for your amazing hospitality." He grins like the cat who got the mouse between its fangs.

He still hasn’t fully turned around, only his head faces you. And thank God, because you don’t think you could handle that.

But instead of the fresh air you crave, all you smell is that delicious cinnamon shampoo he’s using, breathing in his scent is the only thing you can breathe right now.

You try to keep your eyes trained on his, but it’s difficult. Besides, you can just barely see the rest of him from the bottom peripheral of your view. But with whatever self control you have left, you keep it trained on his face.

You’re not sure if he’s blushing, or if he’s red from the hot water, “I want you.”

Your breath hitches. The way he says it so carnally makes your cunt throb. Like he's desperate and starved in the desert, and you're his only reprieve.

You feel so hot and stupid. He is making you feel so hot and stupid. And he probably likes that. You're so dizzy and you are going to double over and throw up.

Then, you realize it. He is waiting for your yes.

How gentlemanly.

You're not sure when you nod, just that he turns off his side of the water and presses against you.

The water is spilling on the two of you in harsh rivulets. His hands have made their home on your naked hip, moving carefully as though you'll break. And honestly? You will.

You gasp when he squeezes. The sensation is unlike anything you've experienced before, coupled sweetly with the warmth of him pressing against you.

You can't do this. But you're also going to die if you don't do this.

His chin lands on your shoulder, and he starts to nose at your neck, before placing a chaste kiss on your neck.

He's kissed your neck before, making out on your living room couch. But this is different. This has crossed a wholly different line.

Are you fucking stupid?

Yes. Yes, you are.

You feel especially stupid when he grinds his hard cock against your ass, and you release a shaky sigh. Your own arousal has been building up since he entered this shower, but still, it feels like debauchery.

He just holds you like you're going to implode if he does anything else. Occasionally planting kisses on your wet skin. He just stays there, as if comforted by your presence as much as you're comforted by his.

You try to relax, really. But you just accidentally push at his hardness. He grunts.

"Sorry," You gasp, shivering despite being under now scalding hot water. To your misery and bliss, Mark starts to place open mouthed kisses along your neck.

You can tell he’s trying to be delicate and slow, but he’s barely containing his heat, and you’re not doing him any favors by jerking against him.

Still, he just inhales deeply through his nose, and holds you tighter against him.

After a noisy kiss against your shoulder, he says, “Can I see you?”

You swallow, knowing he can see you. He just wants to embarrass you.

So he doesn't play nice after all.

Still, you turn in his hold, intending to be close. And the goddamned asshole immediately backs up a few steps to get the full view.

You force the embarrassment of being naked in front of someone for the first time to the back of your brain, taking the green light to examine his body as well.

You spot the matching piercings on his collar bones that you've become familiar with, glistening against the water. Your gaze trails down, to his pierced nipples… He's even more uncouth than you had thought.

When your eyes go to his lower stomach, you gasp, putting a hand over your mouth.

And honestly, never mind the huge, throbbing monster of a cock with piercings all over it. Your issue is with the tramp stamp right above it.

You thought that kind of tattoo was mostly gotten on your lower back, but it's not any less tramp-y if it's above your dick, either.

He must be thoroughly amused by your look because he grins, "Like it?"

You don't. You don't like how vulgar he is at all. But in the moment you find that you do. Stupid cupid.

"Yeah." Way too breathy than you would have liked.

He seems to be just as enamored with you, because he eyes you much more unabashedly. That sends a new wave of butterflies in your stomach.

His eyes bore into your wet sex, then meet yours, “Do you want me to thank you, still…?” He breathes. Cocky.

You nod quickly, "Yes."

"Don't worry," He approached you again, bumping his body with yours and maneuvering you against the wall, "These piercings will feel really good inside you."

Oh, you don't doubt that.

"But first," He starts to kiss sloppily at your collarbone, between your breasts, then to your stomach, taking his time as he makes his way down your body. All you can do is moan into the steamy air like an idiot and hope you're doing ok.

He kneels between your legs, eyes on your cunt. 

He blinks, staring at it, "Cool," He breathes.

He looks up at you with honey-brown eyes, wide and glassy, like melted caramel catching the morning light. He pats your thigh, "Let's get your pretty self prepped, yeah?"

You have an idea of what he's going to do. You've read books with far too much indecency for your own good and watched a few homemade videos here and there. So you're pretty familiar with how this goes down.

He snickers, "You spread your legs like a slut."

Gee, blame a girl for trying to help you along, would you?

His hot breath fans over your wet sex, making you squirm. And the sensations you feel when he places a smack of a kiss against your clit are much better than you ever could with the press of your fingers.

Your moan is far too high pitched for a kiss.

"Knew it." He kneads the flesh of your thighs, then prys them open even further, "You're a virgin. Too obvious, babe."

You've taken to ignoring him, mind too hazy to give him a response. But he impatiently waits for one. Going as far as to pinch you to get it.

"What?" You ask, incredulous, frustrated that he isn't burying his face into your cunt yet, "What do you want me to say? Sorry for being a virgin?"

He scratches that previous thought about you being cute. You're actually really fucking adorable.

He rewards your sass by sticking his tongue out to lick across your folds, spreading them.

Immediately, your thighs clamped around his head like muffs. And he groans.

"Sorry, babe. 'S too early but I wanna see how tight you are…"

That's the only warning you get before he slides a finger into your hot, wet entrance.

Your hands come to grip your own hair, biting your lips at the sensation, trying to keep quiet. But the sounds of your moaning escape you nonetheless.

"Haah, that's good." He sounds like he's the one receiving oral. He moves his finger in, out, in, out, "Really good."

His mouth is on your entrance, lapping up at your wetness like a dog. His slurps are lewd, on purpose.

You're so embarrassed. You're trying to shut up but it's impossible. You think your elderly neighbors can hear you. Or the journalist. Maybe even the whole neighborhood. It's driving you insane.

You yelp when he hoists your thighs over his shoulders.

"Lose the stick up your ass." He tells you astutely.

You don't know what overcame you, but he's taking his sweet time and you're only getting more frustrated, "Pull it out since you're down there already."

He laughs, loud and boisterous. The vibrations against your cunt make you squirm, but with his strong hands gripping your thighs like a vice, you can barely move anywhere.

"God, babe. I am going to make you fall in love with me. Swear it."

A blatant threat in your opinion, before he dives into the wet cavern of your cunt again.

Your heart is beating so fast and you're growing so hot. Your pants and moans echo through the spacious bathroom.

You throw your head back and it hits hard concrete. Your groan is mixed in with a cry of pleasure.

He pats your thighs in consolation, before easing a second finger into your cunt.

It barely takes, but he makes it. Squeezing his ring along with his middle with the audaciousness to scissor them inside of you. You grip his hair and scream.

At the pain. At the pleasure. At the embarrassment. At the desperation. It all mixes together into one hot, stupid mess.

You clamp down on his fingers and you cum. You cum harder and faster than you've ever cum before in your pathetic life. It's dizzying, it makes your throat raw and you kick at his back. But it's the best feeling you've ever experienced.

He guides you through it, sucking at your clit then licking your folds, slowing down his movements when your high starts to ebb.

He pulls away from between your thighs, not even taking a decent gulp of air before he wetly kisses your inner thigh.

"I told you I'd make you fall in love with me," He says musically.

You're ashamed to admit that might be halfway true.

—

Surprisingly, Mark is nice to you after. He helps you clean up so you both smell like your cinnamon shampoo, delicately washing over your back with his hands. He's his usual chatty self, but you're so out of it you can't keep track when he keeps jumping between topics.

He treats you like his girlfriend and not a stranger who hit him with their car when he kisses you on the bed. He's all over you, kissing everywhere on your face. Even when you try to push him off and protest.

He's on top of you, and you glare at him. Although everything is softened under the hazy glow of post-sex, you've regained some of your bearings again and realized he is still your very ill-mannered housemate.

Nonetheless, he's stronger than you and likes to crush you under his weight when you get too bothersome about his blatant harassment of squeezing and pinching your cheeks (both kinds).

"You should've seen that look on your face, it was all like," He sticks his tongue out crudely and rolls his eyes back. Then he looks at you with a full blown grin, "Like that. It was really funny."

You ignore him with a groan, rolling over onto your stomach. "Get off my bed."

Now it's just worse because when he presses his pierced chest to your back, your chest is compressed against the sheets, practically sucking the wind out of you.

Still, you'd rather be crushed under his weight than give him the satisfaction of wheezing.

"Aww," He says, condescension dripping like honey, "You're so adorable, like a kitten." He smiles toothily like he just came up with the best idea of his life, "Can I call you kitten?"

You try to push him off you, completely disgusted, "No!"

"I'm kee-ding," He says, not kidding. He squeezes leisurely at your hips, his thumbs pressing into the fat of your ass. "I've got another name that suits you wayy more."

You grunt, your wriggling finally stopping as you accept your defeat. You sigh, "What?"

He squeezes the flesh of your ass, "Crazy."

—-

Someone used to call you that, back when you were a kid and you'd have panicked fits under the crafting tables. You were the nicest, but also the most troublesome child in preschool. When kids got over their fear of coming to school within the first week, yours persisted to the second grade.

You're sure it was a tease — or, most probably a bully — from kids your age. Either way, it's like all those strange memories resurfaced to your mind when he called you that.

You're not still hung up on the names you were called when you were four or five. Of course not. It simply striked you how accurate it was when he called you that.

Mark falls asleep like a half hour later like a rock. His arm dangling lazily over your waist is no better than dead weight. After finally wrestling out of it, you slide your feet into your slippers and pad quietly out your bedroom.

It's been a while since you've had hot tea to calm you down. Nearly since Mark first came here. You used to have it to calm your nerves pretty much everyday. You push down what that could— and does mean.

You sip the chamomile out of your giant bowl of a mug and turn on the TV. Much to your annoyance, the first thing you see when it assaults you with its bright colors is the news at full blast. Mark must've been watching it while you were taking a shower.

You blink.

It's not much. Just a robbery from the neighboring town, a couple miles off from here. Still, it bothers you. One of the robbers happened to accidentally kill an accountant. 

You switch channels just as a person gives a detailed eye witness account to a ginger haired reporter. 

The channel switches to the middle of a spy movie, right at its climax. While watching an agent parachute from an airplane very dramatically, you recognize that reporter on the news as your neighbor, and you wonder what could've brought her all the way there just to report a random robbery. Seems weird.

Your train of thought is cut off by the gun shots of the main character shooting the unnamed terrorist of an unnamed country.

You sigh, pushing your cheek into your palm. You won't be getting any sleep tonight.

♡

a/n: ik im not the only one whos a sucker for wife beaters under plaid and chopping wood... fans self

Also, im aware that no weird stuff happened yet. This chapter is still a "setting the stage" sort of one. soo yup mohawk n reader being a thing from the get go was the plan. itll all make sense later. maybe

Your town had just begun to wake. Children going to school, adults going to work, and your lousy elderly neighbor mowing the lawn loudly.

Dawn was the busiest time in your town, second to lunchtime rush hour. And yet, it was still relatively quiet. Unlike the constant buzz of the city, it was almost as if there was an unspoken curfew here. Everybody wakes up at 7, goes to sleep at around 11. And… that's it. That's the system.

There's a twenty-four hour convenience store a short walk away, sure, if you were feeling particularly nocturnal. But even if you were, the people of the town pushed you back into shape, bending you as straight as a ramrod like the rest.

Luckily for you, you knew just about, uh… nobody. So skirting between bedtimes and staying up till sunrise was normal; and no one cared enough to question it.

And that was good. You liked that. To be left alone. 

You inspect yourself in your vanity mirror, turning your head side to side. You lean back a bit and pull at the gossamer of the ribbon in your hair, positioning it as straight as it would allow you to.

You tuck your fingers into the bow, pulling at the material to get both sides even. You had slept three hours last night, all because of the scare you had received yesterday. You couldn’t even toss and turn with the way Mark was draped over you like a lazy house cat. Luckily, you managed to steal away a few hours of sleep before the sun rose. A restless sleep that felt more like existing in a black nothingness.

The alarm woke you up with a jolt at 7:30 AM. The ringing threatened to burst every blood vessel in your head.

Mark, on the other hand, continued to sleep next to you like a lifeless corpse. You were annoyed to admit you were jealous.

You powder your face, attempting to relieve it from the fine lines and dark circles you gathered beneath your eyes. A well-cherished gift you received from years of incredibly poor sleeping habits. You repeat a phrase in your head like a mantra as you watch the blemishes disappear: poise, style, manners.

Poise. Style. Manners. Even had a ring to it.

It's a phrase your grandmother would repeat to you as she dressed you in fancy garments that were specifically tailored to you, just before you were expecting guests. Esteemed, wealthy guests whose faces were steeled and smiles tight as though they’ve received multiple cosmetic procedures.

Those nights were boring, until you managed to slip away with your grandmother’s closer friends, where they entertained you with games and stories about their wonderful lives overseas. You still remember your giddiness when they’d tell you about their lives like Disney movies you used to watch. And the funny look on her face when your grandmother caught you. Feigned disappointment that was more like playful envy that you didn’t have to entertain visitors. She always pretended she didn’t see.

Taking a step back to see the full view of yourself, your feet shuffle as you run your eyes along your body. Instinctively, you pull at the hem of your short dress, trying to cover more of your thighs.

It's completely useless, the material hardly gives, firm in its place without stretch. You should appreciate how well-made clothes were made back in the day; but instead, its inability to pull down just makes you huff.

You pad over to your closet, running your eyes along the folded up fabrics on the shelves, nicely organized from lack of use. You look for a pair of shorts to wear beneath the dress so no one gets any funny ideas by peeking, or worse– accidentally flashing your quaint little town, probably scarring them forever.

As you leaf through them, your eyes threaten to droop, and the inviting softness of your carpet beneath your feet is appealing. Telling you to fall asleep and forget all about cold waters and strange woods and stranger men.

You pause your browsing when something bright red catches your eye, you take it out curiously.

You hold it in your hands, it's a pair of opaque tights that look garish unless styled properly. You splay it over your arms, looking at its full length. You were never this bold. Plus, you remember how you got it, a gift.

You hum at the sight of it once again, pleasantly surprised to remember you still had this.

It's old, so you sit on your stool and put it on as carefully as possible. You bunch the material up at your toes and slowly slide the fabric over your leg gently. You wouldn’t want to rip it by careless accident– luckily for you, the sturdy material does not rip or stretch unnecessarily, lifting on your legs without hassle.

It was made for endless nights of dancing under strobe lights in white, clunky go go boots. It’ll do just fine on your small trips today. You bet it's handled worse.

Just before you leave the bedroom, you glance at Mark sprawled on your floral sheets one last time. You watch as his bare chest expands and contracts with every slow breath he takes. With the movement, the piercings on his chest and collarbones catch the light– inviting you to come over and touch. He looks like the picture of peace, like a pretty angel that crash landed from heaven onto your roof…

He lets out a loud snore.

You shake your head, sighing and close your bedroom door with a soft click. You’d see him again today, anyway.

You sit in your antechamber by your front door, bending down to pull on white socks with short lace to rest neatly over your Mary Janes. The frosted glass of your front door allows less light, and you struggle with the shoe’s clasp.

You relent and flick on the lights by the front door when you want to look at yourself one last time before leaving.

You stand in front of the full length mirror, (there were many mirrors in your grandmother's house, it seemed) and exhale in surprise.

You did it, you honestly really did it. You managed to encompass the style that your grandmother used to dress you in, but without her help. You were very nervous, because although you had adapted her sense of style, (read: she dressed you at every given opportunity.) you weren’t sure you could pull it off. You didn’t have her mind and her artistic way of thinking about mundane things.

You bite your lip, suppressing that proud smile. She’d be so happy to see you looking like this. You do a little twirl in the mirror because you can’t help yourself. It wasn’t shoddy work what you’ve done. Not at all.

When your poor grandmother wasn’t suffering from Alzheimer's, you never cared to please her by abiding by her silly way of dressing up. Outside of when you saw her, that is. Nowadays, you feel like you owe it to her. At least when you went to go visit her.

You can’t imagine what it must be like for her to be ripped from her comfortable lavish life into a care home, where she was treated like a regular person, or worse. It was dramatic, and you weren’t sure how your grandmother was coping with the sudden change. It couldn’t be easy.

You had begged her to stay and let a few nurses take care of her in her own home, but it just wasn’t what she wanted. And you couldn’t change your grandmother's mind any more than you could steer a bull away from a clever matador.

You think of your grandmother on the drive to see her. How, in her youth, she twirled between wealthy men at jazz bars and once caught the eye of a prince—though she did tell you he was a selfish idiot.

It’s hard to believe someone so extravagant could share your DNA. You and her seemed worlds apart, and you couldn’t understand why. Why were you a recluse and she a social butterfly? Fate could be unfair with its dealings at times.

She never hid her disappointment when you came home without a man on your arm—but she still doted on you. Every weekend, she’d insist you visit so she could brush oils through your hair, tucking a net over your head before pulling out card games or puzzles.

That is, if you got to choose. More often, she’d drop a book in your lap and tell you to read.

“Any woman can be beautiful, that’s the hook. But what after that? You need to be smart to keep them wound around your finger.”

The message went over your head back then. You just wanted to play. Still, despite the forced math drills and constant lectures, she was endlessly entertaining—filling afternoons with scandalous stories that made your aunts cover your ears, even as they laughed.

As you think fondly of all these memories, you frown. You stand at the entryway of the care home, and you spot her. The sight of her, weak, frail and so small in the armchair… it broke your heart.

You blink back tears that threaten to pool at your eyes, then muster up the courage to walk up to her. It always made you anxious, because you never knew what to expect. You didn’t know if she would recognize you as her granddaughter, or smile politely as though you were a stranger. Or worse, lash out on you in a panicked fit.

To your relief, you spot Amber nearby. So you decide to speak with her first.

Amber was the intern who worked here, sometimes shadowing doctors. Though as of late, she's mostly able to get all the work done herself. She was very competent.

She had only just started when your grandma had been recently admitted. Nonetheless, she was a huge help during the startling change. She’d seen you snotty and sobbing on more than a few occasions.

When she spots you, she beams, and waves her hand in greeting.

You inhale, waving back with a tentative smile. Your short heels click softly against the tiled floors as you approach her.

She carefully places a thick, plaid blanket over an elderly resident, smiling at him before walking over to meet you. She wraps her arms around you in a big hug.

“It's so good to see you!” She exclaims. You’re startled by the affection, but do the same. She pulls away, hands resting at your elbows.

Before you could tell her it was good to see her as well, she does a once-over on you. She giggles, “Wow! You look beautiful.” She cocks her brow playfully, “You know, I've always been meaning to tell you this, but you always look so cute. You’re really talented with style and stuff.”

You feel a flush climb up to the very tips of your ears. Amber is a very pretty girl, and she saw you looking like shit a lot. So, it was a bit overwhelming to hear the compliments.

“Thank you.” You clear your throat, “You…uhm, always look beautiful.”

She laughs, “Flatterer.”

You intertwine your fingers in front of you, smiling warmly. Amber was very easy and kind. It was such a relief to know she was taking care of your grandma. It made you less anxious.

At the thought of it, you remember what you came here for. Nervously, you ask what's on your mind, “How’s…?”

She smiles, putting a hand on her hip casually, “Don’t worry,” Her eyes go to your grandma staring at the window onlooking the garden, “She’s having a good day today.”

You blink, feeling excitement bubbling up in your chest, “Really?”

“Yep. When she was eating breakfast, she was telling me a bunch of stuff.” She chuckles, “Something about Soho and apartments above dance bars…?” She shakes her head, amused.

You sigh in relief. Yes, that sounded exactly like your grandmother. The one you knew and adored. “God, you don’t know how relieved I am to hear that. Thank you.” Then you take her hands, “Really, thank you. For… uhm, everything.” You give her what you hope was an honest smile.

She squeezes them back, “You’re stronger than you think for coming to visit her so regularly like this. A lot of people wouldn't.” She says sincerely.

You nod, and adjust your weight to the balls of your feet excitedly. It makes Amber laugh.

She lets go of your hands and gives your shoulder a firm squeeze. She gives you a honeyed, “Good luck,” Before veering off to attend to the other residents.

You nod. And feeling a wave of confidence at Amber’s words, you walk over to your grandmother in quick strides.

You stand in front of her, but she doesn’t look. You bite your lip, and your stomach knots anxiously, afraid this morning was a fluke.

You calm yourself and sit on the armchair in front of her.

“Hi grandma,” You tell her quietly, face as soft and fond as you can make it, trying to appear as least threatening as possible, “It’s me, (y/n).”

You utter your name softly, in hopes of coaxing her back to her memories. You can’t stop yourself from reaching over and holding her hand.

When she looks at you, her eyes seem foggy for a moment, as though confused. Your heart beats a mile a minute, waiting. Waiting very hopefully for that moment of remembrance…

Then, recognition slowly makes its way across her face. The smile that forms on her face is infectious, making the apples of your cheeks hurt.

“Oh, darling,” She says lovingly, in the nickname she always called you, “Oh, I missed you so much.”

You’re surprised when she leans over to hug you, but not surprised enough to not act quickly. You lean in more so she doesn’t strain herself.

She lets go after a few moments, an affectionate smile on her face. She moves a lock of hair behind your ear, "You look beautiful. That dress is so lovely on you."

You smile, rubbing over her knuckles, “Thank you. But…” You laugh, “Grandma, it's your dress.”

She makes a surprised noise. You also extend your leg so she can take a good look at it, “And these are the tights you gave me, remember?”

She hums, thinking about it, then she says, “Oh, yes. I remember now.” She holds your hand firmer, but the pressure is light at best, “I'm so happy you’re wearing it.”

You nod with a smile, looking away momentarily. You made your grandma happy, so all that time it took to get ready in the morning was worth it. You feel your shoulders slack at the relief. She likes it, she really does.

You kiss her hand, then place it gently back onto her lap.

She smiles at your affection. “So,” She settles against the back of the arm chair, getting comfortable. Her smile goes from sweet to wry and knowing. You cock your brow, listening.

"You must have a boyfriend now since you're dressing so pretty." Her eyes twinkle.

“Uhm–” You make a startled noise, blinking with how off guard she caught you with that surprisingly keen observation. Even though her reasoning was wrong, she still got the answer to the equation right.

You don't want to waste time with your mouth open uselessly, not while you don't know when she's going to slip away to her illness again.

You collect yourself, "I am seeing a man…" You admit, "But we aren't together."

She doesn't in the least seem deterred by your uncouth admission. On the contrary, she seems delighted.

She intertwines her thin hands on top of the blanket, settling further against the cozy chair, "Well tell me," She gives you her full attention, "What's his name, darling?"

You tell her his name is Mark, and she hums thoughtfully.

"Mark," She repeated his name, like an old friend, "I knew a Mark."

"Really?" You shuffle closer to the edge of your seat.

There were always some telltale signs your grandma was about to tell you a story. A very elaborate story that sounded straight out of a blockbuster movie. You couldn't keep the eagerness out of your voice, feeling nostalgic of your childhood. Fond memories of you tucked in your bed, looking up at her as she told you a bedtime story. A bedtime story that was all her memories.

You wonder how it could be that one person was so interesting. Your kid self thought that was the standard for everyone else. Clearly not.

“Yes. He was handsome and rich.” She looks at you through her thin reading glasses, “Is Mark handsome and rich?” She asks, referring to your Mark.

Although your grandmother adored the attention of so many, she only really entertained men who were part of the upper class. She knew her 'value' — or as valuable as a woman back in the 60s could deem herself to be— and reached for the stars.

And she did land on the moon. She gave you more in your inheritance than you ever could have asked for. All for being a honey-tongued sweet talker with a beautiful face.

So, it didn't seem like a bright idea to tell her Mark was rugged, a punk, and that you hadn't met him at the country club— but by slamming your car into his body.

You also wouldn't tell her that he was bossy and had the table manners of a drunk while stone cold sober.

"In a way." You say, dodgy and noncommittal. You nod, "I like him."

She hums, mulling the information over her head silently.

The cogs in your brain move as you watch her expression carefully. Will she approve? Or change the topic? Or maybe she'd tell you to realize your worth and ask for a rock of an engagement ring already…

Instead, she says, "Oh, darling, you know I'm so happy for you,” She looks at you forlornly, “But Mark is bad news."

A silence stretches between the two of you as you process what she said.

…How could she have known that? Did she somehow hear from someone? The only time the both of you left was yesterday. But now, you couldn't recall how open your windows were for the past two weeks or how dark it was outside when he smoked on your porch.

Or maybe she was still continuing her story…?

You swallow, placing your hands on hers, "What do you mean?

“Well…” She starts, “He was very strong, yes. Big, muscular. But he hit Caroline.”

You furrow your brows, confused at the change in tone, “What do you mean? Was he abusing her?”

Your grandma thinks on it for a moment, her own brows furrowed in concentration, then she waves her hand when the memory doesn’t come. “It was all such a long time ago. It doesn't matter.”

You blink. Well, you suppose that was true…But you couldn't help the morbid curiosity that gnawed at you. Just who was Caroline? And what happened between her and Mark?

Most importantly, how’d your grandma even know such intimate details around these people’s lives. Were they close?

Maybe she just saw it happen. Maybe they were married. Your grandmother probably wandered into the wrong hallway at a party, drunk, and caught him hitting her.

It wouldn’t be surprising. It was the 60s, after all.

Hell, it didn’t have to be the 60s for a man to hit his wife. 

As much as you wanted to hear the story behind it, you didn't want to strain your grandmother and tire her. That was the last thing you wanted.

So, you switch the topic, "Umm… Mark and I went to collect firewood from the woods the other day… He suggested he do it to save money instead of buying it at the department store.”

At the easy turn the conversation takes, your grandmother's tense muscles relax. “Oh?” She seems interested, a smile playing on her lips, “Tell me, darling. He sounds like a gentleman.”

You resist a snort. Not even close. But little white lies can be made here and there. For the sake of your poor grandmother who thought you were a socially repressed, anxious virgin who refused to leave her house. You wouldn’t want her worrying.

“Yes. And he was very good at it, too. He’s also very calm. I can't explain it… it seems like he has a temper at times, but nothing actually gets to him.” That at least was true.

“That's odd.” Your grandma says, “Because Mark is very violent.”

You suck in a breath, trying to reign yourself in. You get that it’s a different Mark. You do, really. Your grandma knew more people than you could count. Of course she knew a Mark. Maybe even five. But still, you can't seem to shake off that sick feeling in your gut… You really wanted her to stop talking about this guy.

Uncomfortable silence hangs in the air, and you decide to speak again, “I… I also brought you something. Tiramisu, I made. I adjusted the recipe a bit so I think you’d like it–”

“Darling, you have to be careful.” Your grandma cut you off, “He’s no good.”

Now, she's mixing her abuser-mark with your stranger-mark. You know she's making a mistake— that those Marks weren't the same. They lived nearly 70 years apart. You wouldn't be surprised if that Mark had passed on by now. Or at the very most, living out his last few years in a care home. They're not the same person.

So why is your heart suddenly beating a lot faster?

Your grandmother smiles, "Did you say you brought tiramisu?"

With a tense face, you nod curtly, passing the tupperware to her absent mindedly.

As the cutlery clinks and the sound of your grandma’s pleased chewing fills the air, you’re unable to get out of your own head.

Amber was delighted, and brought forks for the two of you. You insisted she'd have some instead of you. That your appetite has been curbed. Or maybe you said you had a big breakfast. You don't remember.

While the two of them were chatting, and Amber brought out a bright pink sticky note to label the container as your grandma's, you received a text.

2 new messages from: Mark

You bite your lip and open them.

Mark: Hope you didn't forget about our date today, crazy. I'll be at the diner at 12pm.

Mark: Also, why'd you leave without a kiss goodbye???? You’re definitely going to pay for that… hahaha.

Ding!

Mark: Not kidding.

You grip your phone so hard your knuckles bleach.

You're not sure how long you stare at the messages. Just that you kiss your grandmother goodbye and leave the care home.

—

The drive to the diner is long, which you're grateful for. It's giving you time to think. To think about how completely ridiculous you’re being.

You love your grandmother. Of course you do. But you can't let her words torment you knowing the poor old woman was sick. It was a memory sure, but one that was foggy, tucked away in a safe corner in her mind that she could barely graze.

You couldn't let it get to your head. Mark was your friend now. You needed that. A friend. Maybe even more. This was good for you.

Your mind, being your enemy, recalls your fantastical books that you’d read late at night under your weighted covers. Books about monsters who don’t even bother to glamour themselves when mingling with humans.

The book was good, so your mind begins to reel in the scene. The wizard was animatedly explaining to a traveler why no one questioned his glittering cape and wand while waltzing around Times Square.

"You don't need to fool humans, because humans always fool themselves."

The quote hadn't stuck with you. You were much more interested in how handsome and tall the wizard was described to be. But now, you find the subconscious presenting the phrase to you like a piece of wise advice in a game.

Monsters weren’t real. You knew that. You’d always known that.

But that wasn’t really true, was it?

There were plenty of monsters in the world who weren't witches or goblins. There were monsters who loitered in dark playgrounds with fentanyl disguised as candy. Monsters who used their authority to ask students to stay after school. Monsters who were so bloodthirsty, the need to kill emanated from them in waves. Thick and heady. Black and rancid like rot. 

And then there were the liars. The ones who smiled too wide, who blinked just a little too slowly, words too syrupy. Monsters that wrapped themselves in skin and walked among the living, uttering soft words laced with deceit. Those were the worst kind.

Because they didn’t just hide under beds.

They waited.

Waited for your foot to slip past the edge of your warm bed, so they could clamp down and drag you screaming into the dark. And you’d never even see it coming.

All until you were in your personal hell, their playpen where they could do Whatever. They. Wanted. To. You.

You made it to the parking lot of the diner.

—

You look at the sign and sigh, Rex’s Roast.

The terribleness of the name makes you physically frown as you look at the yellow and red awning. You could picture the simple-minded thought process: 'My names Rex, and I sell roast…booyah!!'

You shake your head, and it almost takes your mind away from the trembling of your hands.

You can't leave your car and see Mark. You aren't ready to. Most importantly, you don’t even want to. Even his name is leaving a bad taste in your mouth at the moment.

But it never really mattered if you were ready or not. Your hands click open the door, and your heel comes in contact with the asphalt.

You stare at your red tights blankly.

Is somebody coming to save you? Or will you have to do this on your own again?

You shake your head to physically rid them of the thoughts. There is no need to be dramatic. It's going to be fine. It's a date.

The bell above the door rings as you push it open. It's a bit heavy, and it swings back in place like a magnet attaching to metal with a soft click.

You stand on checkered floors, looking for Mark.

You checked the time in your car, it was 12:07 PM. He should be here.

Wishful thinking makes you believe that maybe he ditched.

Actually, that thought makes you upset instead of glad. You don’t actually want him to ditch you. That would make you so upset. You wanted to ditch him. That would make you feel much better.

You spot a familiar mohawk sticking out in a sea of people who look the exact same, and you exhale.

He sits on the booth in the far end of the diner, by the window overlooking the park. He scrolls through his phone boredly, a long Weekday Lunch Offers! menu is folded up beside him.

With a deep breath, you unclench your fists and you will yourself to walk over to him.

The second he hears the click of your mary janes approach, he looks up.

A brown leather jacket hangs from a worn band t-shirt, framed by a silver necklace against his collarbones. His jeans are held up by a studded belt.

Now that you really pay attention, you see the outline of the piercings on his nipples. Just barely. You wouldn't have noticed them if you didn't see them first hand for yourself. It was like a little secret only you knew.

You look at his face, and he was also checking you out. By the look of his face, you could tell you were thinking the exact same thing.

Damn, so they do have style.

Still, he doesn’t acknowledge that. Instead, he casts you a grin. “Looking sexy as fuck, babe.”

You slip into the spot in front of him, rolling your eyes at how sweet and thoughtful his words were. You slide the menu across the wooden table to face you.

"Aw, did you dress up for me?," He coos with a fake pout even though you already ignored him, "That’s so cute.” 

You squish your palm to your cheek, looking at him exasperatedly. Yet a smile plays on your lips. He grins. 

Your legs cross under the table in case he decides to play footsies.

You don't bother to correct him on how you, in fact, did not dress up for him. "So did you."

His grin grows wider, amusement dancing on his features, “Obviously.”

Beneath his eyes, are bags. You don't understand how he has them even though he snores through half the day. Must be the toll to pay for being so fucking annoying all the goddamn time. But they do frame his honey-brown eyes well. Makes him look more innocent. 

That is, if you didn't look at the rest of him. All piercings and devilish smiles. Even worse when he opened his mouth, where he spouted vulgarity like he skipped every other vocabulary lesson in school.

The bottom of his clunky boots touch the toe of your heels.

You grumble, your legs are already flush against the booth, with nowhere else to go but to cross them and lift them to rest on top of the red leather seats. And you would rather die. And of course the shithead knew that.

When you look at him, he's wearing that stupid smirk on his face. He's leaned back so far into the seat to reach you, you can barely see his face beneath the table.

He makes you smile because he is an awful man who does these kinds of things to you.

"Stop it." You say, not meaning it. "What are you going to order?" You try to change the subject.

He grins, fangy, "Milkshake. Anddd steak." He has his boot entirely over your shoes now.

You kick him. That just makes him chuckle.

"Gross combination." You say as you skim through their menu. As you look at the pictures of juicy meat and fried chicken, you remember you hadn't eaten a thing since you woke up, and you were absolutely starving.

He shrugs, then drags the back of your heel to rest at the middle of the table, where he can comfortably tangle his legs to yours.

Reluctantly, you place your heel over his boot so he can stop bugging you already.

At the action, there's a pink on the apples of his cheeks that you refuse to believe you imagined, but it's gone quickly. "The hot, blonde waitress told me the strawberry milkshake was the best. How could I resist?"

You glare at him, frowning, "Don't talk about women like that. Like you're a gross pervert." But it is true, the strawberry milkshake was the best, especially with their blueberry cheesecake…

He blinks. You’re cut off from your fantasies of dessert with his quiet, “Right. My bad.”

You don’t bother saying anything back. Mark merely watches you skim through the menu with his head on the table, laid over his folded arms. You come to the most correct, grandiose decision to have a double cheeseburger, with extra fries. You deserve it after the chaotic morning. And because you’re annoyed with him, you’re taking the vanilla milkshake. There. That will really show him that you’re passively upset. Won’t know what hit ‘em.

The beach blonde waitress comes over, small notebook and a pen in her hands. She glances at both of your legs intertwined beneath the table, and her youthful face smiles, "What can I get ya two sweethearts? Marry me pasta?"

That wasn't on the lunch offers, so no.

You tell her your order with a polite smile and she notes it down.

She looks at Mark, "And you?"

He doesn't look up from where he's moping against the sleeve of his jacket. You and the waitress both look at him for a bit, but he continues to stare into nothingness. Ignoring her.

You bite your tongue at insulting him, instead pressing your heels against his boot harder, making him flutter his lashes, "He'll have a steak and a strawberry milkshake."

She immediately jots it down, an easy smile back on her lips, "And how'd you like it done?"

Is this all because of the 'respect women' comment, jeez. His ego was more fragile than you thought. "Well done." You answer.

She clicks her pen closed against the notebook, "Mmkay, your order will be ready in eight minutes!" She gives you a smile which you return before she turns on her heels and heads to the kitchen.

The second she's out of earshot, a frown immediately makes its home on your lips, and you look at Mark, "Maybe don't be rude to the waitress?"

He shrugs. And it's only then you realize he isn't spacing out, he's looking at something.

You turn your head, curious to what has his undivided attention like this.

Eve.

She was the reporter you saw yesterday on the news, and also your neighbor.

You cock a brow back to Mark, face screwing up even more. But he isn't looking at her with lust —not at all— but you're not sure what it is, either. It's something calculating. Like how a writer goes people watching.

"You know that girl, right?" He asks.

His eyes narrow at her, as though she's personally victimized him.

"Yeah, shes…" our… "my neighbor."

He finally tears his eyes off of her, looking up at you.

"Do you wanna call her over?"

Now, this was just getting weird. Last you checked, he didn't want to leave the house for two weeks straight, let alone talk to people. Then, out of the blue, he decided to be useful, going out to the woods like some born-again lumberjack. And now, he was Mr. im-so-social?

"No. I hardly know her."

"Then I'll call her over."

Before you could even react, he was standing up, throwing you a wink. “Be right back, babe."

You barely have time to kick him before he’s halfway to her. She’s perched on one of the bar stools, chin tilted up in a way that says she’s used to being noticed. Surprisingly, it's easy for him to say hi and strike up conversation. Easy. Totally effortless. Like they’ve known each other longer than you’ve known him. Which wasn’t much, but still. 

You hate how long you watch. 

And then, he gestures to you, waving in your direction. 

Both of them look straight at you. 

Your stomach flips, and the tips of your ears flush and you quickly look away.

But it's not long until you're scooting in your booth so Eve can sit next to you.

"Hey (y/n)," She says, as though you’re old friends, "Your little boyfriend over here is into journalism, apparently."

You give him a withering look. He really isn't. If anything, he's into the sort of journalism where he voices over sports games or insinuating shit in a matchmaking reality TV show. So basically, not journalism.

You don’t bother correcting her on the fact that Mark isn't your boyfriend. Having a man you weren't even dating staying over your house for that long was just screaming, "Look at me, i'm an easy whore. Please gossip about me and my poor life decisions."

Instead, you go for a layered, "Is that so?"

She senses the tension in your voice and your sharp glare at Mark, "Woah. Hey, if you guys are fighting, I want out. I don't wanna be stuck in the middle of a couple-fight thing."

Before Mark could say something so irrevocably horrendous it'll ruin your reputation forever, you speak, "No, please stay." You give her an apologetic look, "I'm sorry. I'm just a little hungry, that's all." You smile sheepishly in a way that you hope conveys sincerity. Because it is. You were really fucking hungry.

She sighs, relaxing her cheek onto her palm, "Honestly, same. I had to do this broadcast that was in the next town over. Literally did not eat anything since last night, but it was so worth it."

Mark pipes up at her words like a sleeper agent, “Oh shit, yeah. I saw the tape yesterday. Some dude died, right?” He says it like he’s deeply affected, but it comes out more douche-y, “So sad.”

You cover your temple with your hand so Eve doesn’t see you roll your eyes. She nods at Mark’s words, "It was really sad. But if it's any consolation, the guy was kinda old." She leans in closer, whispering, "And apparently, a total sleaze."

You furrow your brows. Did that man really deserve to die because he violated a couple HR workplace rules?

Yeah probably.

Mark hums and the waitress comes again with your plates.

The food on it is steaming and your mouth immediately salivates. It smells really fucking good.

"Careful," The waitress says, chipper, "It's a little hot." Eve has a plate of wings, you, your burger with a mountain of sticky cheesy fries, and Mark his well-done steak.

He frowns at the plate when she sets it down in front of him, "I like medium rare."

All three of you ignore him like it's an unspoken code of conduct.

She gives you all your pastel-colored drinks in tall glasses. A candy cane looking straw sits in a sea of whip cream. "Oh, and the chef is trying out a new strawberry shortcake recipe! I can give it to you guys after your meals. Since it's new, it's totally free of charge." She winks.

You have a feeling she only said that because Eve is sitting with you guys. Although you don't doubt her words that there really is a new dessert Rex is trying to perfect, you don't believe such an offer would be made towards you.

If a small town could have a celebrity, it would definitely be Eve. The journalist was always on TV, even if it's just reporting something mundane.

Still, Eve was ambitious. Reporting school events and petty crimes probably wasn't what she wanted when she pursued journalism. You're not surprised she jumped at the opportunity to broadcast a robbery-homicide when the chance was given, even if it was a five hour trip away.

You were never jealous of Eve. She was pretty, yes. And social, and smart, and her goals in life were clear. But you never felt like you hated her because of it. You barely even gave it a thought.

Till now. You don't understand the feeling entirely. But you find yourself wallowing in self misery as you realize you could've done great things in your life but you decided to lay in bed all day instead.

"Oh my god, that would be so fucking awesome. Thanks, Stephanie."

The blonde waitress says more pleasantries back to Eve and you find yourself dreading sitting next to this radiant woman. Her presence was just too much. You find yourself rubbing at your forehead, a headache building up as you find the situation akin to a moth sitting next to a star. 

God, get it together.

There's a nudge at your foot.

You glance over across the table. 

Mark is wearing that cat-like smile again, sharp and smug. But in his eyes is a different emotion, something you haven’t seen in him yet. 

A flicker of wariness? Doubt? You couldn’t be sure. 

He leans back casually, hands folded behind his head.

While Eve is distracted, he mouths the words, "You. Look. Delicious."

He wiggles his brows and pretends to bite the air.

Your breath stutters and heat floods your face. 

Then, you glare at him, scandalized. That only makes him grin wider. 

He shrugs, keening, “What? I meant like, in a respectful way.” 

He’s lying. Obviously. 

You scoff. You can’t believe him. You also can’t believe your own self for feeling warmer. “You’re such a creep.”

He leans in closer, “But a hot creep, right?”

You open your mouth to say something that probably isn’t that clever, but it was worth a try anyway– but Eve beats you to it. 

"Guys," Eve interjects. 

You immediately straighten, like you were caught. 

She dips her spicy wing in the ranch, "You know something super weird about this homicide guy?"

Mark was already looking at her intently, pretending like he wasn’t just shamelessly flirting with you.

Then, he kicks your leg. His calf stretches to rest against yours beneath the table. 

You pointedly ignore it.

You look at her, trying to sound invested, "What?"

"He wasn't even supposed to be in the building that day. It was his day off."

Mark shrugs, "Dumb luck?" He offers, but his words sound too measured.

"No footage of the murder happening either. He was just walking by and dropped dead, apparently."

Eve puts a wing in her mouth, you stuff your own with a big bite of your burger. You never thought the day would come when Mark would be the most civilized person on the table.

"No footage, but how'd you know he dropped dead?" Mark asks as he steals one of your fries. You give him a nasty look.

"Well," She starts, covering her mouth with her hand then swallows, "There was. But it was like, one minute, he's walking through the hall with a briefcase, right? Then," She waves her hand dramatically, "Guys on the floor."

You imagine the scenario in your head, "Poison?" You offer.

She shrugs, "Yeah, maybe. His body is in forensics being tested. But also, if you're robbing a bank, why poison an accountant who's not even supposed to be there that day? It's weird.

"Then again…" She sucks the bone clean, "The guy who killed him apparently smuggled morphine here and there. So…"

You think it over as you take a gigantic bite out of your juicy burger, but it still doesn't make any sense.

Mark looks at you and Eve with confusion as you both scarf down your food like an underfed pack of wolves. But he values all his limbs in place to even say a word about it.

“So, hypothetically…” He starts, “would the report be in our news outlet, even though our town isn’t the one that recorded it?”

She smirks, proud of herself, "You kidding? I have the broadcast plastered everywhere there. I came back a hero."

He chews his steak, then brings his pierced lips to wrap around the candy cane looking straw, "Would you mind if we saw it? I'm really interested." He’s weirdly polite. The words sound all wrong coming from him.

You stop chewing. Then look at him. But his eyes are on Eve.

She shrugs, nonplussed, "What the hell, sure. You're new here, anyway, right? Maybe you could meet people here."

He nods, and that malicious grin is back, "Oh, for sure. Journalism connections and all that shit."

He meets your fearful eyes and winks, just go with it.

Go with what?! Your eyes scream back.

"Oh my god, (y/n), you should totally come with." She bumps your shoulder with hers, "One more person to brag to."

No. You want to say no. But between Mark's horribly adorable puppy eyes and Eve's 'this is going to be so weird if I go alone with your boyfriend.' look, you comply. Like an idiot.

"Okay. Sounds fun." You say. But actually, fun sounds like eating cake and cozying up on your couch as you read a good book. But who gives a flying fuck what you want, right?

You eat your meal with random conversation. Apparently, Eve thinks Mark's band shirt is "sorta satanic"

"Dude, this band literally cast spells on their songs so people can listen to them."

Mark guffaws, "Holy shit, are you my fucking mom scrolling through facebook?"

You leave them to bicker as you think about when you're going to go to your town's news outlet archive and watch the rerun of a crime that was five hours away from you.

News outlet archive.

Now that you ate, you're beginning to formulate an idea in your mind. But you won't ask about it while Mark's here. No. That's way too suspicious.

Maybe spending a day between endless folders and a million screens doesn't sound so bad after all.

♡

Hi, I just wanted to say my bad for including a detailed outfit description for the reader, I understand that's not everyone's cup of tea! I'll refrain from doing so at all in future chapters. But I wanted to address that both Mark and reader dress in cool/ unique ways (and of course the grandma stuff), so that's that.

If anyone was wondering, the outfit was a mix of 60s and modern fashion! The dress was 60s (skirts were very, VERY short at the time, haha) and so were the tights! Bright colors that often clashed with the rest of the outfit represented youthfulness. Short mary janes are also 60s. The socks and the bow made it more modern-ish, so the outfit wouldn't feel costume-y. Try and think london mod! Mary quant stuff.

I was going to make the tights have polka dots/ geometric patterns on them and then I was like jesus christ

Also, yes, in every reality Rex is bad with names. He will never escape.