Draw Me In

–|*|–

Fourteen – Romeo and the Lonely Girl

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*~ The more that I think, how I need you
The more that I think, the more it seems true
And now it means more
Than I ever meant it to ~*

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While I'm gathering my pyjamas for after my bath (because even though I'm home alone, I hate walking out of the steamed bathroom in just a towel because once out the temperature drops very quickly – getting changed in the bathroom is just the all-round warmer option) I steal a glance over at my drawer.

And because I'm the biggest wuss on the face of this bloody planet, my mobile is still in there.

It's not that I haven't been tempted to look – that was the problem – it's just that my fear kept winning out. It's like when I got feedback on assignments at college and uni – I'd always stuff it in my bag and pretend it didn't exist for a week until I got the nerve to look.

I mean, I know that I can't change what's been written, and if it's there I might as well see because there's nothing I can do about it. But it's . . . it's like there's suddenly a room full of people around – watching me, scrutinising me. And sometimes it's not even a room full of people . . . just a room brimming with one.

Because I'm a wallower.

I wallow.

So reading things stemmed from anything unknown makes me nervous because I know I can't stop the swell of embarrassment and shame that comes with it. Like, I don't want to be on the receiving end of this, so stop trying to make me be.

I swallow a little thickly as I stare at the drawer now, feeling heat creep up the back of my neck as I clutch my pyjamas to me like they're a shield (albeit a soft, sort-of pointless one).

And then, in my trademark style, I –

No, I don't trip, thank you very much.

I peg it.

–|*|–

I let out a sigh as I sink into the hot water, feeling it soothe my muscles and relax me in a way nothing else does. Closing my eyes, I lie down until the entirety of me is covered, and then I shudder.

Seriously, if I ever went to a sauna, I reckon they'd have physically remove me before I melted.

So warm, I think, dunking my cold nose in.

Leaning my head back, I try to will all of my busy thoughts away, but just as they do in the night time, they seep in – floating on the steam that fogs up the mirror and sinking into my hot cheeks.

As his gaze (green, incidentally – I had hardly looked at him the night I met him, but fan sites had been crazy thorough) pops into my mind, smudged with his words, I sigh. Again. I had been trying to scold myself into not thinking about it – him – by attempting to point out the embarrassing side to my thoughts.

Which sort of went like:

I don't even know him.

He's just a man.

Get a bloody grip.

And so.

I mean, I was a school girl once, I'd had a crush or two, but even then I'd never obsessed about it like this. I had been so shy – even more so than now – so nothing ever became of them. They were just a nice face to look at in Spanish or History, and it had been a very much "out of sight, out of mind" sort of thing.

I think I sort of treated them more like glorified posters than anything else.

Anyway, my point is that back then they were just sort of . . . baseless, superficial thoughts that I spent less than five minutes on. I never expected anything to come of them and I never wanted it to, either.

But now . . .

Groaning, I give my head a little whack on the plastic behind me and snap my eyes open.

"Shut up," I mutter to myself, bringing my hands out of the bubbly water and tap tap tapping on my temples like a right nutter. "I don't like him. I don't. Sod what Alice and Rose think. I. Don't."

Who are you trying to convince – the bubbles or yourself?

"Bollocks," I mumble, sinking down until my thoughts are muffled by the water.

–|*|–

I stay in the bath until I get pruny, and then some.

Like sleep and books and doctor who, bathing is also one of my favourite things.

I decide it's time to get out when I almost do the first while I'm submerged. No need to add almost drowning to my list of casualties (yes, I have a list).

So with a lamenting little sigh, I pull myself up from my recline. I'm in the process of ringing the excess water out from my hair when I hear a noise.

I pause, squinting at the bath taps in front of me as if that will make the sound any clearer.

I wait and then –

Knock knock.

"The door," I conclude a little dumbly, still staring at the taps. When the knocking comes again, I try to blink away the slight haze covering my eyes but realise that's it just really quite foggy in the bathroom – not in my head.

My squint carries on round the room until I spot something shiny in the fog. It takes me a minute to discern it, but when I do –

Rose's bag.

I roll my eyes as the knocking sounds again, taking my time in standing from the hot water. I forgo my pyjamas and instead just reach for the towel, relying on the heat from the bathroom to just get me to the door and back.

"I'm coming!" I sort of yell as I tighten the towel around me, quickly snatching her bag off the side and stepping into the living room, the carpet growing a little damp under my feet. "I swear, you'd lose your bloody head if it weren't screwed on."

Once there, I pull the door open – well try to, anyway. Our carpet has some serous thickness to it, as in; it's an uphill battle forcing the wood over the bleeding thing. "You forgot – "

I break off then. Literally. My speech just comes to a screeching halt.

Because the door is three quarters of the way open, and I can clearly see it's not Rose standing on the other side. No one even remotely feminine, in fact.

It's a bloke.

For a moment I just stand there, dumbfounded. I can't see who it is because their head, as well as being tipped towards the floor, is encased in a dark hood, and I think they might be wearing . . . sunglasses?

I think –

What?

And then –

Christ. First Alice with her spring cleaning, and now this. Don't people understand the concept of autumn?

So I'm thinking these, admittedly daft thoughts, while standing in front of a stranger. A male stranger. A pretty tall male stranger. A pretty tall male stranger who, to be honest, is looking a bit shifty.

And to top it all off?

I'm in a towel.

I think I might groan or squeak or something, because he suddenly looks up. As in, I don't even see the motion, just the fact that he was looking down a minute ago, and now he's . . .

. . . looking right at me.

(I mean, I assume so at least, because I can't see behind the dark lenses of his glasses).

But still, my eyes widen, and unwittingly, I take a step back.

Who? I think, but can't get my mouth to form words, as the fact that there is a strange man on my doorstep has sent my nerves haywire. I can feel the increase in tempo of my heart and the blood pooling under my cheeks. Suddenly – as quickly as he looked up – I find my hand tightening on the door, and I'm about to slam it closed and lock the ten trillion locks we have when –

"Bella."

The sound of my name startles me, and my hand seizes – unable to move for the moment. I can feel my palm sweating on the metal, but all I can do is stare up at the man with round eyes . . . which only grow even rounder as he pushes his hood back, and removes his glasses.

And because I'm useless, I'm pretty sure I stop breathing for a second.

"Bella," he says again, smiling a bit. His eyes drift before they focus on mine again. "I guess you, uh . . . " Drift and lower. I can't even find it in myself to be self-conscious or embarrassed, I'm that bloody bowled over. "I guess you . . . you never got my text."

Tiny goose bumps form on my skin as I stare at him, and when they turn into small trembles, I suddenly find myself in control of my body again.

"No," I whisper-choke, my throat clogged with the beat of my heart. Not no to his question but no to the fact that he's here. On my doorstep. Stood in front of me.

I watch his eyes widen a second before I push the door so hard, it really does make a slam as it closes.

–|*|–

I hide in my room.

For the past twenty minutes I've been sitting on my bed, alternating between staring blankly at the wall and have little panic attacks.

My thoughts go something like:

What is he doing here?

Why is he here?

Oh god oh god oh god.

I keel over and duck my head between my knees, still kind of shaking. This couldn't be any more opposite to what I had planned for this evening. I was going to have a bath, eat something not-healthy but delicious for dinner, and splurge out on the sofa or my bed with a marathon of doctor who.

This.

This is not that.

Even as I press my hands so tightly over my ears, I can still hear the vague muffled sounds of his knocking. Or talking. Or whatever he's doing.

Go away, I think.

Please go away.

–|*|–

Ten minutes later, the noise has stopped.

I hesitantly remove my hands from my ears, cringing a little as the blood rushes back and crushed nerve endings hiss at me. Pulling my head up, I glance at my darkened door with baited breath, clutching my towel tightly as I wait for something else . . . but I wait a further five minutes and there really is nothing. No sound. No knocking. No talking.

Nothing.

Letting out a relieved breath, I stand and shudder as the cold air nips at me. Slowly, I pull my door open and peek out – as if there's something out there waiting to grab me – but find the coast clear.

I can't stop the little trembles that wrack through me as I pull on my pyjamas. Even though I'm not cold anymore, I watch as my hands shake as I brush through my hair. In my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I notice my pale cheeks and seemingly irremovable startled expression. I look frightened.

I feel it.

–|*|–

Eventually, after pretending for as long as I can, I make my way back over to the front door. I walk on tiptoe, not making a single sound as I maneuver along the soft carpet – knowing the placement of squeaky floorboards and religiously avoiding them.

"He's gone," I whisper – inaudible – to myself, right before I lean up and look out of the peephole . . .

. . . and then yank myself back so fast I fall backwards, landing with a very audible thud behind me.

"Bella." A sound on the wood, as if he's sliding his palm down it. "I'm sorry if I scared you."

Heart thumping, mind reeling, and butt and palms sore from where I just got a serious case of carpet burn – my initial reaction is to flee, again.

But instead I blurt – "What do you want?"

I guess not being able to see him makes me a little braver.

Silence then, and in it I scramble up, backing away slightly. I see the latch and so badly want to lock it, but I'm kind of leery about getting that close again.

So I just wait, trying to squash down the panic.

"I just wanted to see you," he says, voice soft even through the wood. "I'm leaving in a couple of days and I . . . I guess wanted to see you one last time before I left."

I can feel my face burning at his words, and even though I can't see him, I still avoid looking at the door he's hidden behind.

I see you.

I wish you wouldn't.

I can't stop. You're everywhere.

"You . . . you saw me," I say shakily, my hands lifting, tugging at my hair. "Please – " I want to finish with leave, but something stops me.

I'm not good at being firm with people, and I don't want to be mean to him. I just . . . I don't know . . . I don't know how . . .

"Not for long enough," he says, and I burn. "And I'd really like to talk to you, too."

I swallow thickly, overwhelmed. "You . . . " I trail off, trying to steady my voice. "You don't even . . . why do you want to . . . "

"I don't know," he admits, and his voice sounds so close – almost like it did at the concert. "I just know that I want to."

My bones grow soft at his words, and my body sinks to the floor. My mind is caught in a loop of – I don't understand.

"Please," he says, when I don't respond, his voice low and dripping with . . . something.

I shoot a look behind me, at my bedroom door and feel the compelling urge to run to it and hide under my duvet until he's gone. It's so strong that I actually take a little shuffle backwards . . . but then that something clicks with something inside of me, and my insides crack a little.

Turning back to the door, I whisper, so quietly I'm not sure he hears me, "I don't think I can."

But he does. "You can," he replies quietly. "You just have to let me in."

–|*|–

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A/N: O.O

Just to let you guys know: I'll be buggering off to Romania in the early hours of Thursday (23rd) morning to visit my brother, and won't be back until the 31st of October. So I won't be able to update for over a week. Very sorry! But I hope this chapter makes up for it. :)

Thanks for reading. :) See you all soon! xo