Readers and reviewers, you are all, I will say once again, amazingly amazing :) I greatly appreciate the support. Also, a big thanks to Mrs. Felps-Kalamack-Reynard (3) for beta-ing this for me-her sharp eyes were very helpful!

The cold night air, which seemed to have been suspended by Liam's imposing presence and chilled threat, descended. It settled and nestled itself comfortably around us, and served as the perfect backdrop as his implicit warning rooted itself deep in my mind, lending way to a wave of panic.

He wanted her.

Chloe—small, innocent, well-intentioned Chloe who, regardless of her strength of character, was defenseless against Liam—was now, essentially, his prey.

He wanted her.

Disturbing, immoral, selfish Liam—with a single-minded determination that would be admirable in anyone else and an appalling disregard for everyone but himself—was the danger whose intent was to target Chloe.

He wanted her.

This reality needed no accompanying explanation. Why he did, I didn't know. What he wanted to do exactly, I wasn't sure—nor was I in the right frame of mind to even begin to consider the possibilities. What I did know was that the thought of her at his mercy—the image of him towering over her, having cornered her—catalyzed an anxiety that threatened to block out all else. What if I wasn't there? What if I couldn't protect her? The consequences of such possibilities were daunting. So much so, I chose to avoid them.

Back to the point. The simple fact, no matter the inflection, held the same gravity whichever way, entailed the same alarm and increased heart rate. I had gotten here just in time. I had seen him tighten the grip he had on her, could picture the slip from the unaffectedness he usually carried himself with, to reveal an insatiable desire to have his way, no matter anything, or anyone, else. What if he had—

I was jolted back to the present as I felt pressure against my chest, sending an odd sort of humming through me that I felt travel through my veins.

Looking down, I met Chloe's blue eyes, filled with concern. Of course she would be concerned for me. Of course. Looking over the rest of her in assessment for any other damage, I was satisfied and set to the task of discerning whether or not my sinking suspicion was true: Trying not to think about my hands on her, I placed one on her torso for leverage as the other reached for the zipper of her jacket, intent on finding out whether Liam had left any physical reminders of the altercation. Too late I realized that I hadn't voiced the purpose of my essential undressing of her, and that, most likely, she would not want my hands on her after what had just happened. But I wasn't exactly ripping her jacket off her and she seemed perfectly calm—I moved slowly, for good measure, however. I wouldn't stop now—I had to know the extent of the damage that had been done, see it for myself—nor could I without looking completely inane.

Zipper undone, I maneuvered my hands so one would support her elbow as the other took her arm out of the sleeve it was confined to and carefully rolled it up, mindful to be gentle. As the bruises came into view—my suspicions confirmed—my grip on her tightened involuntarily and I close my eyes momentarily to regain my mental faculties.

He had left marks on her. She was hurt. And as important and alarming as this latter was, I couldn't seem to focus on it entirely. For a few lengthy moments, I was overcome with thoughts of what I wanted to do to Liam. How, if given the chance, I would cause him as much, if not more, pain that his remnants on Chloe had caused me.

"It's fine." Her voice was what interrupted my thoughts this time. "They're just bruises. They don't even hurt that much." Was she attempting to defend him? To explain away his actions? "I—"

I cut her off, having heard enough, aware of the textbook denial she was probably experiencing.

"They're not just bruises, Chloe," I said, eyes snapping open. She must be aware of the severity of the situation, must know what this meant.

Taking a silent breath, making an effort to collect myself, I asked what I dreaded to know and yet, had to know.

"Did he touch you anywhere else?"

"No."

Letting out a breath I hadn't known I was holding, I continued, "If he so much as looks at you twice, you need to tell me." I would not make the mistake of minimizing the situation, which would essentially leave Chloe vulnerable and be seen as an invitation for Liam to try to trap her once more. No. It was vital to remain vigilant.

She nodded sharply, but there was a visible shift in her gaze, a seeming sudden distance from the present. I was witness to a sort of panicked turmoil that steadily took over her expression. It was as if the night's events, the implications of this encounter, had finally caught up to her and were now settling themselves into her mind, finally cracking the impressive self-possession she had managed to hold onto. She looked properly scared. And while I was glad that she was aware of the danger, fear was not a feeling I wanted her to continue on with. Her anxious expression was not one I wanted her to wear. Not while I was in the picture.

"Chloe," I said, only continuing when I had her attention. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Okay? I won't let him hurt you."

She looked unconvinced and while I wanted to drive my point home, erase all doubts of my promise from her mind, she stepped closer to me, preventing me from doing so.

"W-what am I going to d-do? Go to administration?"

The ignorance of those not on a sports team—I had forgotten about that blissful unawareness. It was appalling how much the school had invested in sports. Most of all, in football. All the equipment, fundraising, away games, because our team was strong. What was even more insulting was that those who had an interest in how our school ranked nationally—in essence, administration, faculty, and parents who donated horrendous amounts of money—thought that our football glory traced back to Liam, was because of him. There was not one person on a team. Hell, Liam wasn't smart enough to strategize properly, when it came down to it. He was a fine example of a primitive alpha male: his only concern to come out on top. And his means? Brute strength. And yet, he got all the recognition while other players—who I was equally unable to respect but could not deny their abilities—remained unacknowledged. This was probably because Liam's father was a crucial donator of the aforementioned ghastly amounts of money. And because of these football intricacies, Liam walked around like the cocky, smug, invincible son of a bitch he was.

Paraphrasing this to Chloe—hand clenching in the process and enlightening me to the fact I had also, unknowingly stepped closer to her—I maintained my original position regarding her safety.

"But I meant what I said, Chloe. I won't let him hurt you."

She seemed to relax unconsciously and her gaze softened, the panic that had been there before slowly retreating—she knew I meant it. But I saw something else flicker in her eyes, something eerily close to an argumentative glint.

"You shouldn't be looking out for me all the time," she said, sounding as if she wholeheartedly believed she was being perfectly reasonable.

Lips poised to elaborate, I interjected, "Can't I just get a 'thank you'?"

"Thank you," she said sassily, eyes never leaving mine. God, she was such a little smart-ass.

"What do you want me to say? What else do you want from me," I questioned, feeling irritation begin to encroach on my collectedness. I did not understand her. Shouldn't she be grateful? Couldn't she just accept that me having to look out for her—not even having, but not minding, even wanting—was the way things were? That they weren't going to change and the sooner she accepted that, the better?

"That's just it. Nothing. I don't want anything else from you. In the month that we've known each other, you've done more from me than almost anyone I've ever known. And you just shouldn't—"

She was rambling, going on about principles—convoluted principles that didn't apply because they were unassociated with my own bizarre desires to keep her safe.

"Chloe," I said sharply, hoping a no-nonsense attitude would quiet her. "Will you please, for the love of God, just shut up and be complacent?" Her jaw dropped, mouth forming a small 'o'. Continuing, I said, "I know that sounded rude, but frankly, I don't care. I needed to get the point across. Chloe, you're not going to win this, so the sooner you accept it, the better." Ineloquent, but at least there was no room to argue. She was stubborn, but so was I. She wasn't going to win this, and deep in her eyes, I saw that she knew that.

Attempting to maintain some dignity, she said, "If you ever tell me to shut up again…" She trailed off, probably unable to think of a threat but wanting me to think that it was simply too terrible to utter. Fighting off a smile—the idea of Chloe threatening anybody, especially me, being laughable—I said, "Won't ever happen again."

Silence fell upon us as we both looked down; her gaze sweeping the ground around us while mine fell upon her; the top of her golden head and her surprising proximity to me. As I realized this—that we were both extremely close to one another—it was suddenly all I could think about. She seemed to be grazing the length of my body, from mid-chest down to me feet, without touching me at all. It was maddening, inexplicable, and yet, I wanted more. It felt as if every nerve ending that she was almost barely touching was alive, laying anticipatorily in wait, itching for something more, more concrete, more immediate. I—unsurprisingly, if I were being honest—didn't want to let her out of my sight, didn't want her to go home, didn't want to have to back up and put distance between us.

Relying purely on instinctive reasoning, I said her name quietly, not wanting to startle her, not wanting to risk her jumping away. Looking up at me, I asked, "Are you going to be home alone again?"

She nodded and I could see both wariness and anxiousness in her eyes.

Unsure of where I was going with this—and where the courage to voice it had come from-I asked, "Do you want to go home?"

"No," she whispered, voice shaking ever so slightly.

She was so small, so good, and the fear that had crept its way into her voice sounded wrong, unjust, on her. It was a feeling I wanted to erase. I didn't want her to be afraid, especially knowing I was going to be around, and I wished there was something I could do to reassure her, to once and for all make her okay again.

She looked up at me suddenly, blue finding green, and it was as if something was guiding me to her, trying to pull me closer to her. It wasn't as if I didn't want that—didn't want it so badly that, if I thought that my nerves were tingling before, that I had been intensely aware of her before, I was sorely mistaken—but I couldn't allow it. It was presumptuous and, more importantly, I knew I wasn't a source of comfort, knew I was ignorant on how to be such.

Without warning, she broke our eye contact, leaning her head on my chest. The strength I had been expending to stay in place, exactly where I was, crumbled in face of the physical contact and I let out a tension-filled breath, acquired during the long moment I had been trying to reign in my hormones, or whatever it was, that seemed to be commanding me to close the distance.

She looked up at me once again and, this time, it was she who, metaphorically, pulled me to her. She seemed to be pleading with me, wanting not just the assurance of her future protection, but wanting to feel safe now.

Whether it was because I was weak, or because I was a teenage boy, I caved, though my eyes never left hers, wanting to be able to gauge he reaction. I brought one hand around her lower back, setting it comfortably on the modest slope right above her lower body, as the other hand indulged a desire I had been harboring and went up to her hair, as soft as I had imagined it would be. Running it down the length of her hair, I continued down the length of her torso, able to feel the humble indents of her ribs, until it snaked around her side, meeting my other hand.

I was hardly breathing and I couldn't think—not properly or sanely, at least.

I had last been hugged when I was ten, a gesture having come from Kit when a gang of boys had accused me of being riffraff after having seen me in a park with him and Simon. But I honestly couldn't remember the last time I had hugged somebody.

Still looking at me, she brought her hands around me waist, but not before they skimmed my obliques.

And that was that.

I was overwhelmed with the opposing feelings to continue to look into her blue eyes or to look down and make sure she hadn't concealed matches in her hands. Selfishly, I guided her head to my chest once more, reveling in wonderment that, despite our differences in height, she seemed to fit there.

Was this a hug? As insane as it sounded, I doubted that it was. I had seen other people hug—a quick, short gesture that seemed to be the now standard from of greeting or farewell. Hugging did not, from what I had seen, involve slow, deliberate movements that toyed with people's sanity. I resisted the urge to check my pulse, convinced it was either dangerously close to that characteristic of a heart attack or had stopped altogether.

I had to stop this, had to reassume control of this situation before it got out of hand—out of hand being standing here all night, which I didn't doubt I could do.

Tightening my arms around her, wanting to imprint the feeling of her against me for it probably wouldn't happen again, I took a breath before letting go and stepping back. Though I had lost her touch, I would not be deprived of her company, not for the time being. She didn't want to go home, not yet. Spinning her around, I kept my hand on her lower back—I was a soft-willed teenage boy—as I lead her through the parking lot towards my car.

"Where are we going," she asked, with barely suppressed curiosity.

"To get something to eat." The usually crowded diner would be practically empty, the town's youth and its most popular customers all out and about, celebrating our win at one party or another. It would be the perfect spot to get her refueled while maintaining peace and quiet.


Walking into the house, I was greeted by dimness, the only light on the main floor coming from the kitchen, where the light was on and the moon filtered through the back doors.

"Derek," my dad called from the kitchen, only slight uncertainty in his tone.

"Yeah," I answered, hovering around the steps that would take me up to my room. No such luck.

"Come here."

Sighing, I trekked to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe and crossing my arms as dad turned in his chair to face me.

"It's late," he started.

It was twelve fifteen, which was late for me. But he was probably getting to that. "It's an hour and fifteen minutes before curfew." Simon, Tori and I all had the same curfew, though I was the only one who had both yet to break it and yet to need it—I didn't go out much.

"And I texted you," I added. Texting seemed pointless to me and I disliked the loud, harshness of the sound of voices over phones, but I relented when necessary.

"I know, I know. But you never go out, even after games. Well played, by the way," he finished, shooting me a smile identical to Simon's.

Smirking, I nodded in gratitude. "So, are we—"

"Not quite," he interjected, his expression taking on a calculating quality.

Puzzled and slightly unnerved by his gaze, I waited in silence for him to continue.

"What'd you do tonight?"

"Just a grabbed a bite to eat."

"For three hours," he questioned suspiciously.

My eyes fell to the floor for a moment, and when I looked back up, he was wearing a victorious, smug smile.

"Who were you with," he asked offhandedly, taking a sip of his coffee for good measure.

Sighing, I answered, "Chloe."

"She's the girl you're tutoring, right?" He knew fully well she was the girl I tutored; he was just trying to milk this as much as he could, enjoying that he had found a way to make me squirm.

My unresponsiveness made his smile grow.

Controlling his expression, he said, "I'm sure she's a lovely girl, and if you'd ever like to have her over or needed to—"

"No," I interrupted quickly. Chloe did not need to witness our little band of misfits in action nor would I subject her to the teasing that would undoubtedly accompany her visit. But this was hypothetically speaking, because why would Chloe have a reason to come to my house? She wouldn't. "It's fine. She's fine. She won't be coming over." I wondered dimly if my coherence would suffer any time her name was simply brought up.

"I'm simply saying that if she were to ever come over," holding up his hand at my opened mouth, he went on, "you would have to abide by the same rules as Tori and Simon: doors are to remain open and the second floor is off limits."

Mortified and no doubt looking like a fish out of water, I turned to go, trying to save face and leaving my father's smiling face behind me.

When I had reached the stairs, he called, "Is she as pretty as Simon made her out to be?"

I could hear the teasing in his tone and ignored him, making my way to my room. It was times like these that I was convinced that my dad was an adult-sized adolescent, and that he and Simon conspired behind my back for ways to tease me when they could. It was however, good-natured, and I couldn't, in good conscious, be irritated—or, at least, remain so for too long.

Wired from the night's events, keyed up from my time with Chloe, I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep, so I set out to distract and calm myself, laying my homework for the weekend on my desk and working my way through it, finally finishing around four—inane English having taken the longest—when I was tired enough that I knew my thoughts would not keep me up.

The rest of the weekend was spent productively as I did chores and hung out with Simon, thoughts of Liam and thoughts of Chloe taking turns occupying an important portion of mind space. Unfortunately, my thoughts of Liam only got so far, his true motives for deciding to toy with Chloe—she was not his type, despite his claims—remaining unclear. The only conclusion I had established was that he was scum I had to keep an eye on, a reality I had already been half aware of. And so, I was left with thoughts of Chloe. I replayed Friday night over and over in my mind, at first replaying it for the sake of reliving it and then, when I could do that no longer, going over it in strenuous detail, trying not to remember the night in its entirety, but bring back every moment. And, at some point, when I had apparently taken it upon myself to twist reality, the facts and actual happenings began to change ever so slightly, as would the evenness of my breathing when I did so. It was enough that by the end of the weekend, I was convinced that I should be committed.


Monday morning, as I was putting dishes in the dishwasher, anxious to get to school, Simon interrupted my train of thought, one that I had accepted and decided not to attempt to push away at some point on Saturday.

"Are you smiling," he asked incredulously, eyes wide and brows up in disbelief.

"No," I snapped.

Had I been smiling? Had I done so before? And if I had been, than at what? My thoughts of her had blurred together, into one, and I couldn't pull up an exact memory.

"Dude," he said, chuckling, "you were totally smiling. Second time in two weeks."

As I was about to push past him, dad walked into the kitchen, took in Simon's smile and my defensive stance, and raised his brows in question.

"Derek must have a fever. I just caught him smiling. To himself. Again," he added unnecessarily, sounding cheeky.

Ignoring their shared, knowing look, I brushed past Simon, only pausing to grab my keys.


As I walked down the hall, my intent of stopping at my locker and then heading directly to class was forgotten as I saw desperation personified at Chloe's locker once again. The kid irritated me, and he probably irritated Chloe, too, but she was simply too polite to ever admit it or put a stop to his unwanted advances. As I approached them, I reasoned that it was not jealousy propelling me forward, but rather the desire to do her a favour—she, of all people, deserved such a thing.

Deciding that the sooner he got the hint, the better it would be for all of us, I placed myself in front of him, effectively blocking Chloe from his view. She didn't even have it in her to look appalled.

"What are you doing," she asked, gracing me with a smile.

"Saving you from the boy who cannot take a hint." I could feel the boy in question practically vibrating with curious energy behind me.

She laughed and as I bit the inside of my cheek, I gently pulled her away from her locker, letting her elbow go as she fell into step beside me.

"So how was the rest—" she had begun to ask when the sight of Liam scared her into silence, her unfinished sentence hanging in the air. Almost as if sensing us, his eyes slid away from the person he was talking to, first taking a moment to leer at Chloe before his gaze rose to meet mine, narrowing when it did. He wore a mix of irritation, gleeful competitiveness and wholehearted determinedness to affront any and all obstacles. Glaring daggers at him, I moved closer to, and behind, Chloe, placing my hand on her lower back and keeping my hold firm as I guided her into the classroom. But before going in, I looked Liam's way, wanting to shoot him a departing glare, only to catch him still examining me. And it was when he threw me a mocking, predatory smile that it all fell into place: He wanted Chloe, yes. But that wasn't all there was to it for, in the grand scheme of things, it was not only her he wanted to hurt, it was me, too. And the more damage he did to her, the more damage he seemed to know would be done to me.

This newfound proximity with Chloe—that I both wanted and thought was required—was only adding fuel to the fire and with heavy regret, I was faced with the bleak reality that the only way to keep her safe, was to keep her at a distance.

R&R, please :)