Page 117 of Withered

He doesn’t stutter often, and the way he is reacting seems unusual, but I brush it off.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I say as I rush out, not bothering to listen to him.

I grab the first aid box on my way and head toward his house. I debate whether I should knock or not, but the door opens. Jake gestures for me to come in and brings his finger to his lip, a clear sign to stay silent. Just like he did when I first came to help him.

“Mum is in her room,” he whispers in my ear, and my skin tingles at the proximity.

“What? You thought I was going to scream?” I reply with an eye roll.

“No. That’s my job to get it done.” He smirks at me and heads upstairs. I honestly don’t get half of what he says. So, I just follow him upstairs.

“Wait here. I’m going to take a quick shower.” He removes his shirt.

My eyes betray me, like always, and I scan his torso.

“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat, and I turn to face his bed.

“Unless…” Jake walks over to me.

“Unless what?” I ask, looking up at him.

His green eyes pierce mine, and his blood-covered lip turned into a smirk. “Unless you want to join me.”

I take a step back as my cheeks flush. “No thank you. You stink, Jake.”

“Do you mean you’d join me if I wasn’t covered in sweat?” He raises an eyebrow.

“No,” I reply instantly.Was that too fast?

He chuckles and goes into the bathroom. I sit on his bed and look around his room. Jake’s room is full of good memories. This is the place where I got high on a brownie and lost my first kiss.

I stand up and examine his bookshelf. I still don’t see Jake as a reader, but who am I to judge? That idiot is far smarter than I am. There’s also a guitar. As I run my fingers through the strings, Jake enters the room at the exact moment.

“Is this yours?” I watch him from the corner of my eye.

“It was my father’s.” He is wearing black shorts, is shirtless, and is drying his hair. Beads of water cover his chest.Hot damn, Jesus.

I control myself from ogling him and focus my attention on his bruises. He throws the towel on his table, and I cringe.

“Who did you fight with?”

His back is to me, but I notice his posture stiffening.

He shrugs and turns around. “Just someone.”

I shake my head and tell him to have a seat. When he does, I take the first aid box and stand in front of him. He stays silent, and I sense him watching my every move.

I put some antiseptic ointment on my finger and about to apply it to his bruise when he grabs my hand and stops me.

“You don’t have to.” He looked me in the eyes.

“I want to.” I withdraw my hand.

“Why? Why do you keep coming back?” He asks, and my hand stops mid-air.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I drop my hand to my side.

“Just because I told you some things about me, I don’t want your pity,” Jake says, and a shock wave hits me.

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