Disclaimer – Original characters belong to Stephenie Meyer, plot lines and characterisations all belong to Aurora18, copyright November 2015.

Chapter 4

BPOV

It's been two weeks since that night, two weeks since I've begun dealing with the torture of knowing the feeling of being that close to the man on the street without having any real connection to him.

I take another sip of my red wine and despite knowing that I like the vintage and the grape variety, all I end up tasting is bitterness. I feel regret for what I did, because honestly who thinks it's ok to such touching a stranger like that? I also feel regret because I didn't prolong our interaction, because I didn't let my hands linger on his face, feel the rough stubbles underneath my fingertips and cup his neck as I kissed him.

After weeks of denial I've admitted to myself that I…want this man, in so many ways. I try to appear unaffected as I pass him by everyday on the street, but even now I can't help getting caught looking his way. At first he seemed to get off on my slip up, and grinned salaciously every time he saw me looking. Now he just smiles, the corners of his lips lift up and it's the sweetest, purest expression. I wondered what made him change. I just like looking at him; I like him noticing me in the way that only he seems to.

I admit to myself that in the past two weeks I've probably clocked up a fair few miles in the way I've been walking home and to work instead of using a chauffeur. Even when I'm carrying marked up copies of The Magazine, I haul that thing with me all across town so that I can justify casually passing this man on my way to work.

I know that he notices the things I leave for him, and I know that he knows that they're all from me. There's a quiet acceptance in his expression when I see him peeking into a parcel that I've left for him. Sometimes it's food, clothes, a book – anything that makes me think of him. There's a fair amount of men's cashmere reject stock that's made its way to a care package for him too, he could easily become the most stylish homeless man in the city.

The wind is howling outside and I pull the lambswool blanket around me even tighter. If I'm cold now, how does he feel? Does he have a shelter that he goes to? I've never seen him sleeping anywhere else when I've walked past late at night. He's always there.

An hour later and my mind is still on the homeless man, I just feel like I have to know if he's ok. I'll walk two minutes around the corner, check that he's there and that he's got the scarf and snack that I left for him this morning, then I'll go.

Easy, simple.

I won't be long.

Before I can tell myself that going out on the street late at night to check on the man is a bad idea, a silly grin threatens to take over my face. It's been so long since I've felt like this and instead of quelling the feeling as I am so accustomed to doing, I let the feeling of hope flow through me and consider that there may be a reason why this man makes me feel the way he does.

I see a bundle at the spot I can usually find him and feel a pang of sadness at knowing that he'll be desperately curled up seeking warmth in any way he can. I slow down as I approach where I know he'll be. Usually I'd be able to see him by now as the top of his head always pokes out of the sleeping bag, his wild bronze hair too much to be contained, that or he really is just too tall.

When I'm stopped fairly close to him and see no movement at all from him, not even breathing apparently, I start to worry. I'm crouched down and am beyond relieved to see that he is breathing, but not at all deeply. I'm convinced he's still asleep, otherwise I don't think I'd be nearly so brave approaching him in this way.

His lips are pale and chapped and there are beads of sweat running down his forehead, yet there's no doubt that he's freezing. He looks beyond terrible, his beautiful hair is sticking to his forehead and there appears to be no colour whatsoever in his complexion. It takes me a moment to put all of these things together to work out that this man is sick, really sick and needs some kind of medical attention.

I can't take him to the hospital, and there's nowhere nearby that's open where I can ask for him to be given shelter. Regardless, he cannot stay here.

Something occurs to me and before I'm too cowardly to reject it, I decide on it as my next course of action. Am I crazy for doing this? Probably. Does it feel like the right thing to do deep down?

Definitely.

EPOV

I swear to anyone who is listening that I've got some kind of hallucinatory version of flu, I mean, I know I'm sick but it's that or I'm dreaming. One eye peeps open and I take in the warm, soft lighting that seems to surround this place, imaginary or otherwise, that I've found myself in.

There's a lot of brown and cream coloured stuff, lots of beige actually. Furnishings and drapes and throws and couches, this place is huge. It's hot in the room, actually it feels like a motherfucking sauna compared to where I've been spending my nights for the past month.

I'm roused from my interior designs evaluation when the last person I'd ever expect to see in a flu-induced hallucinatory dream appears in the doorway.

"Hello."

Happy Wednesday you beautiful people!

What do we think of this new development?

-Aurora