Page 96 of Petite Fleur

I take a quick shower, cranking the water far too hot to scrub away the layers of sweat from my chase and from sweating my ass off all day in front of the fireplace, and throw on some clean pajamas.

I’m still kind of hot, so I’m settling with a simple t-shirt and a pair of boxers, anything else and I think I’d melt.

I leave my leg off, figuring I can carry it with me and hold onto the dresser on my way to bed. I need a break from this damn leg; it’s hurting too badly to be willing to wear it any more than I have to.

I make my way out of the bathroom, my leg in one hand and the doorframe in the other as I hop out of the bathroom and reach for the dresser.

I’m trying my best to be quiet, I don’t want to wake Maeve and piss her off anymore than I’m sure I have tonight.

Although I can’t say for sure how she’s feeling about what conspired since she passed out before she had the chance to tell me anything, I'm sure I’ll hear about it tomorrow.

When I reach to turn off the bathroom light, I drop my leg, making a deafening noise as it bounces off the tile floor and into the bedroom.

Fuck.

Maeve shoots her head up, staring at me groggily. "What are you doing?" She asks me.

I can tell she was sound asleep before I ruined that, her voice is still thick with sleep.

"I'm sorry, fleur. I was just trying to get to bed." I explain quietly, hoping that she'll just roll over and go back to sleep.

Of course she doesn't. She looks down at my stump and back up to my face. "Where's your leg?" She asks me.

I grip onto the doorframe of the bathroom, leaning down to pick up my prosthesis and show it to her. "Giving my leg a break, I'm sorry I woke you." I tell her.

I figure that will be it, that she'll roll over and ignore me, but she doesn't. She hops out of bed and walks over to me, putting herself under my arm so I can use her as a crutch to get to bed.

I wrap my arm around her, squeezing her shoulder lightly as I clutch onto her and we make our way to bed.

I didn't expect her to help me. I didn't expect her to care enough to even look my way, but this girl keeps surprising me, every time I think I have her figured out I find another layer to her.

Once we're both situated in bed, I find myself just staring at the ceiling and wishing I could fall asleep. I hear that Maeve is having the same predicament as me, tossing and turning and letting out the occasional sigh.

"Why did you help me?" I ask her after a while.

I hear her rustle a little and when I turn my head she's rolling onto her side to face me.

So, I do the same and face this beautiful woman sharing our bed.

"I like when you're not perfect. It humanizes you." She says quietly.

I have to hold back the laugh. My woman thinks I'm perfect. "I'm not perfect, I'm so far from it ma fleur." I tell her, smiling casually at her.

She rolls her eyes at me. "You are, it's intimidating. It's even worse when you're being so nice to me and then casually remind me that I have no say in anything anymore. It's so dehumanizing." She says sadly. She even breaks eye contact withme, staring at a thread that she's absent-mindedly playing with on the pillowcase.

I didn't realize that was how I was making her feel, it's not how I wanted her to feel. I don't want her to be delusional to think that we're here under normal circumstances, but I don't want her to think that she is a prisoner. I want her to make this home hers, I want her to make me her home.

"That was never my intention, Maeve. I'm sorry." I tell her genuinely.

She doesn't make eye contact with me, she keeps her focus on that single string on the pillowcase. It's honestly killing me that she wont look at me, but I think I've fucked up enough for one night so I'm not about to point it out or demand that she look at me.

"It doesn't matter what your intention was. I get it, loud and clear. I'm a prisoner. I'm not my own person anymore." She says quietly.

She shifts again, rolling onto her other side and away from me. I hate that I can't look at her beautiful face, I hate that she turned away from me. I reach for her, putting my hand on her back, but I back away when I feel her flinch to my touch.

I have to give her something, I have to prove to her that I'm not perfect, that I'm just a guy who wants to earn her love and trust. I sigh roughly, scrubbing a hand down my face and rolling back onto my back to stare up at the ceiling.

"My mother was a medical researcher. She worked for some super private company that created very controversial medicines, most of them used for torture and not medical benefits." I start with.

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