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Word Prompt: Charm

Audio-Visual Challenge—Imagined Image: (http) (colon) / / w w w dot fictionistaworkshop dot com /wp-content / uploads / 2012 / 08 / torn-letter dot jpg

View the image and write what comes to you.

Not beta'd.

I'm relieved when he smirks. I'll take smugness over irritation any day.

"Deflowering?" he asks.

"Yes, I spilled flour all over my last pair of clean jeans. Thus the cute pjs; everything else is in the wash. I was just downstairs putting my laundry in the dryer."

"Do you think it's wise to walk around your apartment building wearing… that?" He points at my sleep shorts and tank top, motioning awkwardly between the two as though he can't decide which item is more offensive. He may be ticked off that I left my apartment wearing this outfit, but he certainly isn't put off by my choice of apparel. If only he could speak what his eyes are saying.

"Uh-oh, you caught me! I was trying to attract desperate men in the laundry room."

He ignores my sarcasm.

"And another thing. Why the hell did you leave your apartment door unlocked? Anyone could have come in."

"My outfit is only good for luring unsuspecting men away from their dirty clothing. I have to make sure they can get into my apartment."

"That's not funny, Bella, even if you are joking. Leaving your apartment open is dangerous."

"It's not my fault. It's not like I have a place to put a key in this outfit." I sweep a hand down my body to entice him to look at me again. It's an easy victory.

"Bella..."

He makes my name sound like a complaint. I want it to sound like yearning.

"What's that?" I ask, pointing at the paper in his hand.

"I was leaving you a note, since you weren't here."

"You wrote me a note?"

I snatch the paper from his fingers as he tries to slide it into his pocket. He grabs at my hand trying to take it back. I spin out of his reach, and read it.

I don't know what the hell's going on. Your door's unlocked, and you're nowhere to be found. That's not even remotely safe. In fact, it's kind of reckless. You'd better be okay because I'm kind of pissed at you right now.

My mind deciphers his good intentions—the concern, the alarm, even the caring in his message—but they're wrapped up in so much unneeded anxiety that his words feel condescending.

I take him by the hand and drag him to the bathroom. He watches while I rip his note to shreds and drop the pieces into the toilet, a look of pure confusion on his face. By the time I pull him back through the apartment and out into the hallway, he's scowling at me. I drop his hand and cross back over the threshold.

"It's okay to be angry with me. Just don't be bossy about it. Let's try this again, shall we?"

I make a show of stepping back, pushing the door almost closed and re-opening it.

"Masen! What a surprise to see you at my door."

"Bella."

"Ugh! It's a name, not a warning. You sound like my father."

"Well, I don't think he'd be very happy about finding your door unlocked either."

"Less parent, more friend." I feel bad for sounding so flippant, but he's lost perspective.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm not mad."

"Would you speak to Rosalie this way?" I ask, certain she'd never put up with his domineering attitude.

"No, but she's Emmett's responsibility, not mine."

"Don't get me wrong. I like that you're concerned about my welfare, but last I checked, I wasn't your responsibility."

He huffs and runs a hand through his hair, seeming more exasperated than angry now.

"You are when you're in my car."

His shoulders visibly relax because he knows he has a point. I won't argue with the validity his statement—I don't want to argue at all—but I will call his bluff.

"We're not in your car. We're in my apartment, and you showed up on my doorstep unannounced. Why did you come, Masen?"

"Dessert."

He smiles like a Cheshire cat.

"Liar," I whisper.

He frowns. "I thought we sort of made plans."

"Tentative plans, maybe, but I never issued an official invitation. I was waiting to hear back from you. Why are you here, Masen?" I rest my hip against the door, letting it support my weight.

"To see how you're doing, I guess."

"Close, but no cigar."

"Why does it matter?" he asks, the childish innocence in his voice a result of his inherent charm. It's exactly the trait I want from him, just in a more straightforward way.

"Because you matter to me. If you've come for something, do it honestly. Don't leave me guessing about your motivation. It just isn't gentlemanly."

He looks at the ground. The tips of his ears are pink as he toes the worn carpeting between us.

"I wanted to see you."

A/N: He actually found a way to admit he wanted to see her. It's a Thanksgiving miracle! (I'm from Canada. We celebrated Thanksgiving this past Monday.) This chapter became something else than what it began as when I sat down to write it. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but I'm trying not to be sidetracked by it. The message is there: he's interested, and that's all that matters.

I injured my back on Sunday, so this week has been kind of painful. Your support on the last chapter was definitely a bright spot, so thank you to everyone who took the time to leave a few kinds words. It was greatly appreciated.

I'd love to hear what you think.