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Word Prompt: Uniform

Plot Generator—Phrase Catch: Time's up…

Repeat the phrase to yourself five times, open a blank word document and begin.

Not beta'd.

It feels like minutes pass, but it's probably only a handful of seconds. His scrutiny makes me feel awkward because I have no idea why he's here at dawn, and what his stare means in light of the fact that he's single.

But I won't ask—can't ask—a single question on any personal subject that he doesn't bring up first, especially not while our relationship is tenuous at best.

When he finally snaps back to reality, his gaze falls to the ground, and he runs a hand through his hair. To give him a moment, I head to the kitchen, laying his offering on the counter along with my book.

"I need coffee. Do you want some?"

He scowls and points. "Open the box."

I ignore him for a moment. I probably seem a little rude, since he has no idea how little sleep I've had, but I need caffeine to jolt my coherency. Now more than ever, it's important for me to stay on my toes so I don't make a potentially uncomfortable situation worse. I peek up at him and smile while I rinse the carafe. As I fill it with water, I try to decipher the thoughts behind his tense expression.

"Less smiling, more looking."

I chuckle at his attempt to be funny. If he could see his face, he'd understand how badly he missed the mark. I get the paper filters out of the cupboard and press one into the filter basket. His eyes following me like laser beams.

"Why don't you let me finish making the coffee?" he asks. "You have a box to open."

There's barely enough room for one person in my tiny kitchen. Masen can't get by me without our bodies making contact. He must sense this as he slides behind me, lightly grasping my waist to hold me still. His hands dally, staying longer than needed. I don't mind. In fact, I rather like it.

"Nice robe." He grumbles under his breath, sounding very much like a hissing snake as he mutters something about 'stupid shiny short silver satin.' I bite my lip to keep from snickering. I'll tell him how good my hearing is at another time.

"Thanks."

"Let me," he says, taking the canister from my hands. Between emptying scoops of coffee into the filter, he gazes over his shoulder at me. "Go; open."

Instead, I lean around him, holding the carafe. His body is rigid as I press lightly against him and pour the water into the coffee maker.

"Will you just look in the fucking box?"

So much for avoiding his temper. I resist looking for a little while longer, partly because I don't want him to order me around, and maybe even to mess with him, but mostly because I need my coffee, stat!

"I'm getting there." I yawn and stretch. His irritation is almost tangible. To diffuse it, I pull my favourite mug off the shelf, pressing up on my tiptoes as I reach to retrieve it. He gets his second show of the day if he's looking, because I can feel the cool air on my behind while my arm is above my head. I've finally found a situation where being short is to my advantage. And his.

I expect his intensity when I turn to face him. At least this time I understand it: he's seen my cheeky display.

He slides the box toward me.

"Time's up."

"Why? Are you going to take it back if I don't open it?"

"Are you always this stubborn about accepting apologies?" he asks, his eyebrow arched in disbelief.

"Are you always this silent when giving them?"

He huffs and looks away, his shoulders buckling in resignation. Even in his brooding, he's exceptionally attractive—the gentle upslope at the tip of his nose, the furrow of his brow, the hard line of his plump lips, and most notably, the uniform flex and release of his sharply angled jawline.

"It's way too easy to say 'I'm sorry' without meaning it. They're just hollow fucking words. I'm not incapable of speaking the phrase, but you'd have to trust me to believe I was sincere, and I haven't done enough to earn your trust."

"Do you honestly think I don't trust you? I get in a vehicle every day with you. You've gone out of your way to make me feel comfortable. You've been upfront with your schedule, on time picking me up—"

"I wasn't on time last night."

"And got me a ride in your absence. You've shared your phone and music, you bought me a coffee, and you found me in the library when you were early. And let's not forget keeping me safe when the collision happened right in front of us. What about this should make me distrust you?"

"You shouldn't give your trust so easily."

The dangerous tone of his voice reiterates the warning in his words, but that's not what holds my attention. His eyes burn an eerie, haunted green, the manifestation of a barely controlled hatred. It doesn't have to do with me but rather hinges on his statement. He thinks I shouldn't trust him, and he doesn't trust me.

"It's my choice whom I trust, but I appreciate your concern," I say softly.

He doesn't have to speak his disapproval; it's written all over his face.

A/N: Hi. :) Chapters this week will likely post every other day. That's my goal anyway, although I'm aiming for daily. We'll see. I'm just trying to be realistic, given my schedule.

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