- twenty one - dana
Mom's fever has gone down.
She still looks tired, her movements slow as she sips on the soup Kyle brought, but the worst of it has passed. Relief settles in my chest as I watch her eat, her expression softening with every warm spoonful.
Kyle, sitting cross-legged on the floor, grins as he munches on a sandwich. He's been a lifesaver, running errands and making sure we all eat properly.
"You're leaving tomorrow, right?" he asks between bites, glancing at me.
I nod, twirling my spoon in my bowl. "Yeah. Classes start back up, and I've already been gone five days."
Mom frowns slightly. "Are you sure you don't want to stay a little longer?"
I shake my head, offering her a small smile. "You're getting better. And Kyle's here."
Kyle puffs out his chest dramatically. "Of course I am. The man of the house."
Mom chuckles, the sound lighter than it's been in days. The atmosphere feels. . . good. Cozy.
My phone buzzes beside me. I grab it instinctively, my lips curving up when I see the name on the screen.
Alex.
I've sent him at least a dozen texts today. Updates about Mom, complaints about Kyle stealing my snacks, random thoughts that popped into my head.
He's responded to every single one with the enthusiasm of a brick wall.
"Okay."
"Sure."
"Lol."
"K."
I glare at my phone. You're SO bad at texting, it's painful.
No reply.
I huff and type another. You could at least pretend to be interested.
Still nothing.
I'm about to give up when my screen lights up again.
You're alive. That's all I need to know.
I freeze.
I reread it. Then again. Out of all the responses I expected, that wasn't one of them.
My fingers hover over the keyboard before I type, Like you care.
The typing bubble pops up immediately. I don't. Just don't want you dropping dead before paying your half of the rent.
I roll my eyes, but my chest feels stupidly warm anyway.
. . .
I push open the door, dragging my suitcase inside.
It feels... weird to be back.
The past few days have been a blur of taking care of Mom, dodging Kyle's teasing about who I've been texting and texting Alex way more than I thought I would.
The fact that he actually responded-granted, in the most Alex way possible-made something warm settle in my chest.
I missed him.
I didn't realize how much until now.
And Lord Muffin. My heart gives a little squeeze at the thought of her.
The door wasn't locked, which is odd, but I don't think too much about it. When I step inside, I freeze.
The room is clean.
Not just clean-neat. Organized. My side looks untouched, but Alex's? No discarded hoodies. No random mess. The blankets on his bed are pulled up, even though they're slightly rumpled.
But what really gets me is the corner of the room.
Lord Muffin's food bowl is full.
And next to it? More cat food. Stacked neatly. Way more than I originally left.
My throat tightens.
And then I see him.
Alex, fast asleep, stretched out on his bed. Lord Muffin is curled up on his chest, her tiny body rising and falling with his slow, steady breaths.
He looks. . . unreal.
Dark lashes fanning over sharp cheekbones, mouth slightly parted, one arm thrown over his head. He always looks good-annoyingly so-but like this, in the quiet warmth of the room, he's devastating.
The kind of beautiful that doesn't seem fair.
I don't even realize I'm staring until his eyes crack open, dark and groggy.
"Why are you staring at me, creep?"
The warmth in my chest turns sharp.
I swallow, looking away quickly. I don't know what I expected-some kind of 'welcome back'? A smirk, maybe? Just... something.
"Didn't realize you were awake," I mutter, dragging my suitcase toward my bed.
Silence stretches between us. Then, just as I sit down, his voice breaks it.
Something unexpected.
"You took your time."
I glance at him, surprised. He's watching me now, eyes lidded with sleep but sharp beneath it.
"I-Mom needed me," I say cautiously.
He nods once, like that answer is good enough, then shifts, his arm tightening slightly around Lord Muffin. "Figured."
My fingers play with the handle of my suitcase. "You-uh. You kept the place clean."
Alex shrugs like it's nothing. "You left it a mess."
I blink. "No, I didn't."
He smirks, but there's something almost lazy in it. "Then maybe I just like things a certain way."
I glance at the neatly stacked cat food. My lips press together, but I don't push it. "Thanks for taking care of her."
Lord Muffin shifts in his arms, stretching out with a tiny yawn. Alex barely reacts, just absently scratching behind her ear. "Not a big deal."
But it is.
I don't say that, though. Instead, I hesitate, then quietly add, "I missed you."
He stiffens for a second. Just a second. Then he exhales, tilting his head back against the pillow. "You're annoying when you're not here to annoy me in person."
A smile tugs at my lips. "You missed me too."
Alex scoffs. "I missed having someone to dump all the chores on."
"Liar."
He doesn't deny it. Just shuts his eyes again, a ghost of something unreadable flickering across his face.
And my stupid, traitorous heart stumbles.
He falls asleep again.
I take the time to unpack, change into something comfortable, and settle in. The room feels familiar again, warm, and lived-in. A part of me is restless, though, because I brought something for him.
Something small but meaningful.
I sit on my bed, box in hand, watching him sleep.
Dang, maybe I am a creep.
When he finally groans and shifts, his voice comes out rough. "I can feel you staring, Archer." He turns his head slightly, cracking one eye open. "What?"
I hesitate for half a second before holding out the box. "I got you something."
His brows furrow as he pushes himself up, taking it from me with slow fingers. He looks at the box, then at me, then back at the box before opening it.
Inside is a worn, vintage-looking Zippo lighter.
Not brand new, not flashy. Just simple, with a tiny engraving on the side that reads: Try not to burn everything down.
For a second, he just stares at it.
Then he exhales sharply, rubbing his thumb over the engraving. "What the hell, Archer."
It's quiet. Almost. . . careful.
He closes his fingers around it, turning it over once before flicking it open and shut.
The air between us shifts, but it's not the heavy kind of tension I'm used to. It's different. He's staring at me like he's actually seeing me for once, and it makes my heart skip multiple beats.
"You're really something, you know that?" His voice is rough, but there's a weird edge to it, something. . . softer than usual.
I shift uncomfortably, eyes darting down to my hands, anything but him. "You can just say you hate it, I'll return it."
"Not the point," he mutters, the usual smirk tugging at his lips, but it's different now. "You're the worst." He leans back against the headboard, eyes scanning me like he's figuring something out.
I freeze, feeling the sharp sting of the words before I can stop myself. "What?"
Did I bring him a gift so bad, he thinks I'm the worst?
Way to go, Dana.
He blinks at my response and rubs the nape of his nape before opening his mouth again, "you're the worst as in you make me feel things and nothing's worse than feeling. Feelings are for pussies."
It's my turn to blink at his response.
I stare at him, wide-eyed and caught off guard, trying to process what he just said.
My mouth opens and closes as if I can't quite catch up to his words. The cocky, teasing smile he gives me is back, but there's something different in the way he watches me now.
Did he imply that I, Dana Archer, made him, Alexander Lancaster, feel things.
He pushes himself up into a sitting position, still toying with the lighter in his hands. His fingers flick it open and closed, the soft click of metal echoing in the quiet room.
It's almost like he's trying to hide whatever's going on under the surface, but I can see it in the way his eyes linger on mine, like he's waiting for me to say something.
I swallow hard, still reeling from the way he just hit me with that confession.
"What do you mean. . . feelings are for pussies?"
He smirks again, tilting his head back slightly like he's daring me to keep digging. "Exactly that. I don't do feelings, Archer. They mess things up. Make you weak."
His voice drops low, the teasing gone, replaced by something a little darker, a little more real.
I can't help but feel a strange ache in my chest. "So, I'm messing you up now?"
Alex's lips twitch, and his eyes move from mine to the way I'm sitting, frozen in place. "Oh, you're definitely messing with me."
His voice is quieter now, and that soft, dangerous edge to it makes my breath hitch.
He drops the lighter beside him, leans forward slightly, and for a second, I think he's going to say something else. But instead, he reaches up, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
The touch is light, almost too casual, but the electricity from it sends a jolt straight through me. He drags his thumb along my jawline, grazing the edge of my cheekbone, and I can't stop the shiver that runs down my spine.
"You're a mess, you know that?" His words are a whisper now, just close enough that I feel the heat of his breath against my skin.
His hand lingers, just hovering against my cheek, and I swear, I can feel the weight of everything unspoken in that one touch. He twirls a strand of my hair around his finger, his gaze moving from my lips to my eyes with a look that makes my heart beat faster.
The usual cockiness is still there, but it's layered with something more intense, more urgent.
Oh my God, is this really happening?
"Can't figure you out," he mutters, more to himself than to me.
His finger continues to twirl my hair, his touch soft but deliberate, like he's trying to memorize every detail of me in that moment.
I open my mouth to say something, but the words catch in my throat when his thumb slides across my lower lip.
I swear I almost pass out.
I barely suppress the urge to lean into it, to close the distance between us, but I'm frozen-caught between confusion and the overwhelming pull of his touch.
"Why do you do this to me?" His voice is almost a growl now, as if he's annoyed by the very thing that's drawing him closer. "Make me feel all this bullshit I don't know how to fucking handle."
I should say something, but my brain's too scattered, too caught in the way his fingers are moving, the way he's leaning just a little closer, invading my space, every inch of him a magnet drawing me in.
His hand shifts, fingertips lightly grazing the curve of my cheek, and suddenly, I don't know if I want to push him away or pull him in.
I settle for just staying still, caught in the storm of his touch and his words.
"And then you look at me like that," he mutters, his voice rough and low, the smirk still on his lips, but his eyes are dark, intense. He's teasing, but there's a flicker of something else-something he's not saying.
But the tension between us is thick, and I can't ignore the heat building in the room, in my chest, and the way my pulse is hammering in my ears.
I don't think he can either.
Before I can react, he pulls his hand away, sits back against the headboard, and sighs like he's frustrated with himself. "You really are the worst, Archer."
I blink, the words hitting harder than they should. But I'm not going to back down.
"I'm the worst? You're the one making me feel like I'm walking on fire right now."
His eyes flick to mine for a second, that cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his lips again, but I can see the way his jaw tightens. "Good," he mutters. "Get used to it."
He stands up abruptly. Without another word, he grabs his jacket, the fabric of it rustling as he pulls it on, and heads straight for the door.
I watch him, unable to stop the way my pulse picks up speed, my stomach clenching with that strange, impossible feeling.
He doesn't look back as his hand grips the doorknob, and I feel that pull in my chest, a mix of confusion and desire that I can't even begin to make sense of.
He pauses with his back to me, and I hold my breath, waiting for something, anything, to break the silence. But no-he's gone.
The door slams shut behind him.
I sit there, frozen. My fingertips brush over my lips, tracing the ghost of his touch. Was it real? Was it a warning?
I don't even know what the hell just happened.
I just know that I liked it very much.
I didn't want him to stop.
And then, without warning, the door bursts open again, and there he is.
His eyes are wild, his jaw clenched tight like he's battling something inside of him. Before I can even blink, his hand is on my throat, fingers tightening just enough to have my breath catching in my chest.
"Alex," I whisper in surprise.
"Tell me to stop," his voice is harsh, his gaze intense.
My stomach flips, and my heart kicks into overdrive. I'm drowning in the heat of his gaze, the closeness, his fingers still pressing against my throat, just enough to make it feel like he has all the control. Every inch of me is alive, burning, drawn to him.
"I. . ." My voice shakes.
"I fucking dare you, Archer" he says, voice low and dangerous, almost taunting. "Tell me to stop."