IF I KNEW WHAT I WAS SIGNING UP FOR, I WOULD'VE RAN THE OPPOSITE WAY. After a painful walk to his street (only because the sun was glaring, sipping away at the last ounce of energy I had managed to bring with myself), I had to argue with the guard for ten minutes straight in attempts to let me in. According to him, plenty of girls wanted to "visit him for projects."

Or so I had been told.

If I'd have been observed properly, thick, violent smoke clouds could be seen lining my ears in pure frustration. The torture didn't stop there. Hell, it didn't even begin there. My feet had toppled a couple many steps behind when I let my eyes fall onto the grandiose of Evan's humble abode, and despite trying to brush it off, I knew I would look like a stupid misfit as soon as I entered the largely gated dream of a house.

Luck had been on my side for the first time, since the Gods above sent an angel for help—or, in specific, Linda—the caretaker, I'd assume, as she peeled my arm off my side and gave a slightly terrifying glare to the guard. I had glared at him in equal amounts too, just because he deserved all of it.

"Glad to meet you, dear," her smile had been contagious. "You must be Laura."

And that was all she had spoken to me before furiously dragging me inside.

My eyes had peered over my shoulder, and I had managed to look at the unending parapet on my head before giving up on breaking my neck. I'd have time looking around, I wished.

I met Evan's mother, then. Rosalie. Her hair had bounced carefully on her shoulders and eyes immediately flew to Linda, as if confirming if it was really me. There remained a strange uneasiness on her shoulders, much like it did on mine, but I could justify the awkwardness I carried. Hers, I couldn't pin-point. That, and how she looked nothing like Evan. Her eyes were dark like the soil, hair light, face heart shaped.

But when she'd started speaking, a couple giant knots in my stomach began to dissipate. Her voice was soft and welcoming, contrasting the complexity and uneasiness of the surroundings. She even offered me cookies, which I had to politely decline—all because I needed to see Evan. Introductions could've been less awkward if he was beside me, but he was nowhere in sight. Did he forget? Had I been too early?

It was 12 P.M. I was on time. I hadn't expected him to call me over anytime sooner than evening when I agreed to this, and when he had told me we'd be meeting at noon, pure dread engulfed me. Not because of anything in particular, however. My brain just seemed to be on autopilot this part of the day, and I was more annoyed than usual.

When Rosalie noticed I was growing more unsure every passing second, she pointed out exactly where Evan was, and followed it with something along the lines of him being too reckless. I had sighed back then, but that was just the start of all the troubles. If only I had known, I'd rather have taken up those cookies and spent the rest of the day talking to his mother instead.

Because when I first spotted him, I swear I saw red.

He was killing the punching bag hanging right in front of him, mindlessly bouncing on his feet. Right to left. Right to left.

Anger bubbled in my chest, constraining both my throat and my movements. I was silent, though, observing him for a second—maybe two. Maybe a couple too many. His back was kind of distracting.

It was a good time to acknowledge he was shirtless.

I was distracted, very much so. It remained the reason why I hadn't said anything so far, and continued to just watch him. He probably didn't realize someone was here, just like that day at the hospital—

"Are you going to say something, or have you just decided to stare?"

That statement alone had the power to render me speechless for a couple more seconds, all-while my cheeks-tinged bright red. He'd turned around, now, lips twitched just a little. Too little. Like he was pleased.

"Evan," the biggest sigh escaped my lips. When I spoke, I surprised myself—simply because I didn't think I could function properly anymore. If I just kept my gaze on his face or on the ground, I could behave normally, I hoped. "What in hell are you trying to do?"

He had gone head-first into insanity land, I was sure. His whole body shook when he laughed, but his expression soon shifted—everything that was previously on his face getting replaced with pain as he held his injured hand in the other one.

Idiotic dumbass, I thought while walking up to him. My heart could collapse there and then, and it would be my fault. I would've just retreated, muttered a half-assed apology over my shoulder as I ran away from this—from him—but instead, I huffed, dropped my bag on the floor, and grabbed his hand in mine.

"Let me see," I said, and my voice sounded like a different person's. He stood quiet, towering over me, all in his glory of hard muscles that were now impossible to ignore because of the proximity. When I looked up, his gaze was apologetic, blue eyes in a crystalline daze.

Lord have mercy.

Then, his hand started slipping away from mine, making me hold on tighter. "Wait," I said and overlooked his gaze, running a finger over the violet bruise. He winced. I was rooted to my spot, eyes baffled and lips parted. "Let me help."

Silence crowded the atmosphere like a thick blanket, begging either of us to speak. I just stared at him whilst he shook his head, making a few curls fall over. Say something. I tried to calm my heart, because it was just a guy—yes, shirtless, good-looking, whatever—but it didn't stop going hysterical in my chest, and I was afraid he could hear it.

"Edwards," finally, he spoke, voice rough. I averted my attention from his hand to his face. "Hey."

"Really, Evan?" I retorted with, because I was genuinely concerned. We didn't have time for this. This wasn't fun at all. We had to start icing the bruise, or else—

"I'm okay," he broke my train of thought. "You were thinking what you need to do, right? I'm. . .sorry that you had to see this the first thing after that day. I'll fix this, just give me a couple minutes. I'll. . .yeah. Just wait."

"No," I surprised myself with how bold I sounded. "Shut up." Hm, not bad. "You're an idiot." His face had fallen and mine remained stoic, but internally, I was cheering for myself. "Why in hell did you begin to do this in the first place?"

He was about to reply, but I cut him off. "Doesn't matter. First, we need to fix this up. God, what is wrong with you? You've made it so, so much worse—"

He dropped his finger to my lips. Trailed it down slowly. "I'm glad you're concerned," he began, eyes alit. Mine were the size of galaxies, trying to comprehend what he was doing, breath lost between the words he had shunned seconds ago. And just when I thought I'd ignore his heated gaze, his finger remained on my chin—jutting it upwards and making it impossible for me to do so. "Trust me. But you need to stop acting this way."

Why? I would've been a fool to think I'd be able to speak after that. My throat was drier than the Sahara, mind still focused on the lingering touch of his finger on my lips. For God's sake, I thought. Get a grip.

It took me three seconds to snap out of it. "What do you mean? You have hit your head so hard you've stopped making sense, do you realize?"

He didn't say anything, just grinned. He stood there, smiling like I was a joke, eyes shining bright. So, I took things into my hands, and asked him where the medicines were kept. There was a joint washroom to his boxing room which he led me to, and while I tried to figure out what I was supposed to do, he was humming an arbitrary tune.

The wound on his forehead had also opened up. What a stupid, stupid, dumb idiot. I didn't know what he was getting out of this, but the sadism factor was confirmed and set in stone. I grabbed the icepack in my hands, brought his hand on the counter, and let it make contact.

I might've been too aggressive, because he groaned.

"Sorry, sorry," I said bashfully, eyes determined to ignore his. "Does it hurt a lot?"

He shook his head, corners of his mouth tugging upwards. "I don't mind."

I stilled. He continued, and I could see the smirk on his lips from the corner of my eyes. "You are taking care of me though. What I said that day did come true."

"Yeah?" I pressed the freezing pack harshly on his skin again, blinking innocently. When he cursed, my face morphed into content. "How do you like me taking care of you now? Asshole."

"It actually hurts, you know," he made a face. "Be gentle, please."

Please. There it was, and I didn't know what the ordeal was. It seemed like he could ask for the most ridiculous of things and I'd agree if he said that word. That's what stayed terrifying.

I placed his good hand on top of the icepack, and his fingers grazed over mine for a second, making frissons dance up my arm. I escaped his hold, and let him ice his hand himself whilst I fixed the bloody bruise on his forehead. I could easily do that. My heart was totally not going berserk, and I had this under control. My eyes weren't getting distracted by anything about him—at all. I didn't even care about him, and it didn't even bother me. Ever.

"Edwards," he said in a sigh, grabbing a hold of my wrist. "You're making this very difficult."

Heat crawled onto my cheeks. The brush of his fingertips against my skin felt like fire: gentle yet fervent. "I—wha—"

"The antiseptic is all over the counter now," he rolled his eyes, taking my hand away from the bottle. "The cotton is already soaked. What are you doing?"

"I'm so sorry," I cringed on the inside. God, Laura, get it together. Focus. Then I let my hand rise, and I realized how bizarre this was—the distance I was maintaining, making it impossible for me to reach him properly. He noticed that, and a low laugh escaped his lips. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"No," I shook my head, because frankly, he couldn't have been. There wasn't anything else but just my general anxiety and awkwardness—

"You can accept it, you know," he proposed, eyes on the floor. "I'd just go grab a t-shirt, if that's what's making you so fidgety. Or just give that to me, and I'd do this well on my own. I was going to, right? But you offered, and I couldn't deny."

"It's fine," I scooted closer. He froze. I took another step closer, and there was barely any space left between us. I tried adjusting myself so I could get a complete access to his forehead, grabbing his face to tilt it a little. His muscles were taut, jaw set. As soon as I gently dabbed the cotton on his skin, he inhaled sharply. "Fuck."

I immediately lifted my hand. "I'm sorry it burns," I tried to keep myself at a safe distance from him—a distance which wouldn't make my mind go completely wild—but I just managed to collide with his feet in process, toppling backwards. His arms grabbed me immediately, fastening around my waist and preventing my fall.

Goodness gracious.

I closed my eyes, cursing under my breath. "Shit, sorry."

He chuckled, a deep resonating sound floating in the air seconds after being gone. I shook my head and continued, as gentle as I could be, only to be distracted by him grabbing a loose strand of my hair. It seized all of my attention yet again, and I anticipated what he was going to do. He didn't twirl it around or tuck it behind my ear. While my heart set itself into an overdrive, he stared at that strand of hair so carefully that I had grown paranoid. And after what felt like ages, he twirled it around his finger, a hum complimenting the action.

"Did you cut your hair?"

Cerise consumed my face. He couldn't have possibly realized.

"To be more specific, trim. You did have these—bangs, I suppose—earlier," he continued, and my eyes drilled into the floor. Why did he have to be so observant? Wasn't him having that unfaltering and strident gaze enough? "But they were longer. It suits you better this way, even though they're uneven. And choppy, too," he grinned, letting my hair bounce on both sides of my face. "This side's longer than that one."

"Shut up," I glared, but I knew I looked zero percent intimidating and hundred percent like a clown. "I did it impulsively. At 2 A.M." I admitted.

He smirked, and I knew what was coming. "Should've looked in the mirror—fuck, sorry, Dios, Laura—didn't mean it, Christ," he paused after I had heartlessly dabbed the cotton rather rudely on his wounds, dropping his head in defeat. "I told you it suits you. Looks good. That was so uncalled for."

"I'm sorry," a weird kind of warmth spread through my chest, tied with slight guilt for making him wince so much. So, I gently cleaned up the rest of the wound and caught him smiling. "You say many unnecessary things, it's hard to hold back being aggressive."

When he didn't reply, I jabbed an accusing finger at his chest. "Also, your guard is extremely rude. If it weren't for Linda, I would've returned home and never seen you again."

Realization flashed on his features, and when I expected a snarky reply, he gave me a genuine one. "Sorry about that. Next time, I'd be waiting outside for you. It completely slipped my mind."

Next time. Why on Earth would we have a next time? I didn't bother responding, eyes held captive by his. He dropped his gaze to his hand, and the bruise was starting to subside comparatively. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Explain," I asserted. "All of this. Because if I remember correctly, I told you to refrain from doing all this."

His head fell, and that's when I realized I was still standing too close—too close for this normal a conversation, palm atop the counter, right beside his. I tumbled at least seven steps behind. He titled his head, amusement clear as day in his eyes.

"I guess I got carried away," he let out a forced laugh. "Funny enough, because I had acted like it didn't bother me at all."

"What exactly?" I asked, hands mindlessly keeping all the medical supplies we just used back to their respective places. He realized that, and immediately took those things in his hands and started doing it himself.

"Nothing you need to worry about, just. . .my dad," he paused, but my eyes had been distracted watching the muscles on his arm and how they moved. And I got caught. Red-handed. His eyes narrowed, fingers snapping in my face. "Are you listening, Edwards?"

Honestly, your chest is too distracting, I wanted to snap back, because to me, any other person would've gawked at those muscles the same way I was. And those abs which felt like they were crafted in stone. Seriously, I didn't expect him to be so. . .fit? Was that even the word I was looking for? Shaking my head, I refused to meet his gaze. "What?"

"I'll be right back." Was all he replied before hurrying off somewhere.

I sighed. Straightening my back and leaning on the counter, he was visible in my periphery again, this time a white t-shirt covering all of his torso. Better, I thought, and then rolled my eyes. For my sanity.

"Thought this might help keeping you focused," he said, tone taunting and steps coming nearer. He stopped a small distance away, and words that I was supposed to mutter had tangled themselves in the back of my head. Clearing my throat, I walked up to him and nudged his arm, picking up my bag from where I had left it.

"Anyways," I managed to force out. "Now that that's out of the way, shall we begin what we actually have to do?"

His eyes shone so bright that I found myself give him a wry smile. He didn't utter a word, though—not like he ever needed to.

▂

The second we had assembled all the textbooks and markers out on the table, Evan had shot me a glance. One too pointed, as if he were beyond inquisitive about something I had done. And I hadn't done a thing, yet. I leaned back on my chair when he continued to stare without an explanation, my eyes narrowing. "What?"

He huffed. Dropping his hand to my side, he pulled out sheets of paper I had managed to sandwich between the thin pages of the textbook, fingers threading between them. "I did not tell you about the topic for the project," he mused. "How did you end up researching beforehand?"

I looked away, slight embarrassment trampling on my chest. I did remember him messaging me: do not worry about the topic. We'd research together. Could I have ever followed it, not even knowing a little about a topic when this was a collaborative project? Never. I didn't want to seem completely ignorant, after all—and the thought seemed valid to me. "I asked Stella," I played with the cap of my pen, lips drawn together. "Oh, if you don't know—she's in our class now. I guess the principal did listen to us."

First, he hummed, and then a smile took over his lips. "I'm glad," he had spoken, but he looked disappointed. "I just didn't want you to research beforehand. I let you know about the project late enough, and I didn't want to burden you with that. But from what I can see, you've done. . .almost all the research needed."

My gaze hit the ground. Burden me? Shouldn't he have been glad that I did some work beforehand? "We don't need to refer to these," I pulled the sheets from his hands, smile intact. Even if I had stayed up late, printing and highlighting whatever I'd found useful, we could do it again, probably with better precision. "We can start again, from the scratch."

"No," he shook his head, and then let his palm sit on top of the table. The rings made a sound, making me divert my attention from his face to his hands. "That would be a waste of all the efforts you put. I'm not upset, okay? I just didn't want you going out of your way like this."

"Oh." He. . .cared? About something as trivial as that?

He laughed. "I appreciate it, Laura."

I looked up, and noticed him point a finger almost immediately. "But," he leaned, elbows propelled on the wood. "You need to go a little easy, don't you think? I've seen how hard you study. Why are there so many papers always stuck between your textbook pages at all times, anyways?"

My eyes widened. "I don't have papers stuck between my textbook pages at all times."

He rose an eyebrow. I sighed. "Okay, well. . .I need to write extra reactions, formulae, and all the similar questions I can find," I said somewhat proudly, because it was a real pain getting all of it to make sense. Then, embarrassment took over my words. "Sometimes. . .there's additional information. Not like, I research extra all the time, you know." I could stop talking, because that was enough. I didn't. "But sometimes it's fun. . .like, to know more and—forget it. It's. . .it's necessary to understand the concept better."

God, why did I speak so much? There was no need.

"Why are you so ashamed of it?" His lips