Let me start by apologizing for the, what has it been, three month break. You see, I am currently applying to a variety of colleges and those applications suck the life right out of you and make you not want to write in the least. Whatever, I am going to try and not leave three-month breaks in between every chapter.

-

"Son of a bitch."

Her hand immediately flies to her forehead and she squints in pain, observing the open medicine cabinet through half-opened eyes. It's moving slowly back and forth, obviously feeling the residual impact of her forehead.

She pushes it closed with her pinky finger and looks at her reflection, now tainted with a large crimson smear on her forehead. She closes her eyes and lets out a frustrated noise that she thinks, in retrospect, sounds something like a wounded animal or her mother at two in the morning after one two many Swedish fish.

She has been house sitting for a day, not even that, just a night, and she has already managed to slice her head open with the medicine cabinet door. The blood is pounding to her forehead and her head swims. She feels the cut and the raised skin around it, keeping her eyes closed.

She has just mustered the courage to open her eyes and look at the battle wound when the doorbell rings. She watches as her reflection's eyes widen considerably and she reaches for one of the hello kitty towels, hanging on the far side of the sink.

She catapults her body down the stairs and takes a calming breath before she opens the door, willing herself to look normal with a hello kitty towel held to her forehead.

He's smiling (crooked) when she opens the door, holding a coffee that she naturally assumes is for her in one hand. He's smiling and looking at her and she almost forgets that she is holding a hello kitty towel to her forehead.

"Why is there a hello kitty towel on your forehead?"

She raises an eyebrow at him and lowers the towel and his smile morphs into concern, his eyes darkening and the corners of his mouth turning downward. He takes a fluid step forward, putting the coffee down on the key table, shutting the door with his foot, and putting his hand on her chin to tilt her forehead towards him.

"Jesus Ror."

She would be impressed by his fluid actions if she weren't so concerned with the electricity now flowing through her body with the contact of his hand on her face. She is reminded of afternoons spent on couches with her back pressed into the arm and days spent walking through town, her back pressed into wooden posts.

He's touching her broken skin gently and when he hits a certain spot she winces and draws in a lungful of breath. He looks at her apologetically (a new look she hasn't quite seen before) and reaches down, twisting his fingers with hers.

He leads her to her own kitchen table and gently tells her to sit and she obeys, like a lost child obeying an elder. He's opening and closing cabinets and finally finds what he is looking for, ducking down to reach in the very back corner.

The air shifts when he sits down in front of her and she just looks at him carefully as he reaches forward and takes a napkin from the table. His hands work nimbly as he balls up the napkin and lightly tilts the alcohol onto it.

He looks at her and his amber eyes are soft and she feels like she has just been wrapped up in a large blanket and she feels safe, like she used to. She feels safe and she knows he is counting on that because she knows that this next part is going to hurt like hell.

"This is going to hurt like hell."

He whispers it like it will somehow reduce the pain and she thinks that nice. She clenches her jaw and closes her eyes and again, his hand is on her chin as he tilts her head down slightly, and the electricity calms the fire that is raging through her forehead as he dabs gently at her cut.

"It isn't too deep. You don't need stitches, which is lucky."

His deep voice is quiet and she opens her eyes. They are watering slightly from the pain in her forehead, giving them the appearance of an even deeper blue. He meets her eyes and she watches as his face loses movement.

His features crumble slightly and he is looking at her like something has happened. He is looking at her like he has lost her. Like he did before, when she told him things she never should have said ("No, no, no, no."). He drops his hand from her forehead and it falls with a dull thud on the table. He is still looking at her, the crease between his eyes deepening.

He seems to suddenly remember himself and stands up abruptly, the scraping of the chair on the floor startling the silent room.

"I'm just going to-"

"Stay for dinner." Her hand is tugging on the cuff of his jacket and he raises an eyebrow at her, his face seemingly blank without the characteristic smirk.

"It is eleven in the morning."

She blinks and gives him a small smile, tugging on the cuff of his jacket so that he is closer to her. He takes a hesitant step forward.

"Stay for dinner."

The air between them hums back to life as he smiles at her and reclaims his seat. He reaches forward and takes the box of band-aids, carefully picking one out, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

She is staring at his hand that is lying idle on the table and she wants to grab it and twist her fingers with his because she likes how they fit together any way their hands are meshed. She wants to see how it works when she laces her fingers through his.

But his hand has moved and he is peeling the backs of the band-aid off, still in deep concentration. He leans, with his elbows on the table, towards her and she closes her eyes as his fingers carefully smooth the plastic over her cut. When she opens her eyes again he is still close, but his hands have left her face.

"I'll stay for dinner."