The apartment was cold. It was the middle of April, spring barely started, and I knew my seasonal seldom was beginning to haunt me again. Or, rather, my depression–as per my former therapist would state that I had. But if no formal documentation, what rational reason did I have to claim such an illness?

People got mad at me often. Usually, it was for simple, silly things; like forgetting to clean my room or brush my hair and constantly misplace my ribbons I'd have to buy new ones every other week. But the hate Darren and I for one another was something of a different entity.

It was equal disdain. It was mutual. and, because that, it was quiet and loud and deadly and calming.  Tonight, though, it was like I was a changed-ish woman.

"Where are you going?" Darren asked in a gruff, tired tone, pulling the door open for me as I duck underneath him to walk pass. I scurried off to the hallway where our rooms were.

"Changing," I replied, shutting my door. My back was pressed against it, and I slid down until I sat on the floor. I removed my shoes and chucked them across my room gently, careful not to make a sound. I slip off the ribbon in my hair and scrunched it into a haphazard ball, squeezing it tightly. What the hell was I doing?

I sat on the floor of my bedroom with the curtains closed. Mascara ran down my face making me look like a raccoon. And I hated this dress.

I hated it so much.

I stood and began to disrobe, the fabric of the dress slipping onto the floor. I put on my pajamas and robe.

I opened the door tentatively, check both ways, and make it out of the hallway in one functioning piece.

"And I... suggest you do the same," I told Darren, who, hunched forward in front of my vinyl collection I had sitting right beside the TV.

His clothes were better now–no longer wet and thinly transparent–but each piece was most certainly soiled. He was my guard, not some homeless person I decided to house out of the goodness of my heart (that was a story for another time). I was not about to let him sleep in soiled clothes and chlorine-covered hair.

Darren stiffened, straightened up, and scowled. That's when I saw a misshapen stain on his dress shirt. I could have sworn it wasn't there when we had left two hours prior. "No," he said. "I'm going to bed."

"Uh, no, you're not," I quipped, pointing at him accusingly.

He stopped, slowly walking backwards.

"What's that?"

"What's what?" he asked.

"The... the stain," I said. I wasn't sure what it was.

He said nothing. We stared into each other's eyes. The silence spoke louder than any words could. He was hiding something. Something that had to do with his shirt.

"Take off your shirt," I introjected.

He glared at me. "No."

"That wasn't a suggestion. Take it off. Sit on the chair." I began to walk away but stop once I reach the washroom door. "I don't hear you moving."

"I'm not taking off my damned shirt nor am I moving. I'm fine." this time, he moved. His strides were long and calculated.

I turned around too fast, and lo and behold, he was unexpectedly close to me. His breath was hot, his hands were cold, and his shirt was half undone.

My eyes plunged straight to his half-exposed chest.

"My eyes are up here, love." He did not sound impressed. His tone was hard and thick and cold. Lovely.

"You're bleeding," I said, ignoring him entirely. I looked up at him. "Go sit on the chair."

He rolled his eyes, wasting no time to stroll back into the living quarters and zip straight to the kitchen.

He pressed the small of his back against the edge of the kitchen's island table, staring straight into my soul — and my aching, tired heart.

He needed to get over himself.

"Sit," I called from the hallway, my palm touching the golden-brass doorknob of the washroom. "Down."

"I said I am fine, Aya. Stop acting like you care," he called, no remorse in his voice. God I hate British men.

I inhaled, my heart dropped at his words. It was one thing to be upset and grumpy before bedtime, but this? This was callous.

I was fuming. I flung the door open, quickly grabbing what I needed and shot straight to where he was.

Immediately, he sat down on a nearby chair.

He looked at my hands, of which were swaddling two bottles of alcohol, and bit back a laugh. This wasn't funny.

"Stop laughing." I had meant to say this with more force, more anger, but it came out as a grumble instead.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I shouldn't care and let him bleed to death.

"Take off your shirt," I repeated, switching my attention from his throbbing, pulsating chest to preparing the medicine.

He let out a low, drawled whistle. "My, word," he breathed, a chuckle escaping his lips, "if you wanted to shag, that is not happening."

Oh. My. God.

"Ew." I looked at him sideways. "Unfortunately for you, you get to keep your balls in your pants." I forced a smile.

"And what about you?" He asked, glancing at my work. "Make sure you put-"

I put my hand up before he could finish his sentence. "Douse the alcohol on a cloth, I know," I finished for him. "But to answer your question," I said as I drenched an old, but still in pristine condition, rag, "Unfortunately for me, I'll wake up tomorrow knowing that you're still here in my apartment, alive and well."

When I was done with prep work, I moved to be closer in proximity to him, I grabbed an empty chair. He was still looking at me, with those dreadful  eyes I couldn't figure out the color of.

For a moment, the only thing that I heard was the sound of our heartbeats moving in sync. Thump, thump. Thump.

I watched him take off his shirt (fucking finally), but he took slow, tentative measures to do so. I tore my gaze.

"Don't like what you see?" He grinned.

"No, I don't," I answered plainly. The soaked cloth was in my hand, I hovered over his wound.

It was a rather large scar, raw skin had peeled off and blood started to pool out and around the infected area. It was one of those deeper cuts you'd get from scraping your skin on outdoor wooden furniture.  Ouch.

"You know you're lucky tomorrow is an off day," he said numbly, his head turned.

Tentatively, I pressed the soaked cloth on his chest. His whole body tensed; he jerked, his eyes shut. "Why's that?" I asked, trying to make mindless conversation. But was it really mindless if the words he was saying were a total slap in the face?

"Because," he groaned, reeling his head back, "because..." I paused, moving my hand off of him. "You'll save yourself a crap ton of embarrassment."

I exhaled as if my lips were deflating balloons. "I doubt it."

He reeled his head back forward, his chin on the back of interwoven hands. "What you did was inexcusable."

"I'm not denying that," I said, making a face and resumed to clean up his wound. He caught my wrist, gently squeezed it, and barred me from moving it. "I just wanted to go on that boat, I don't understand what the issue was."

We locked eyes. 

He sighed. "Don't say that," he said. "You knew exactly what the issue was."

I tried to clench my fist, but his firm hold on my wrist stopped me from doing anything–like clean his nasty gash. "Darren..." I said quietly, licking my lips. My eyes etched down to his exposed upper body. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. "I said I was sorry, okay? Just-let me help. Let me do this one thing, I owe you that much, right?" I let out a wry laugh, shaking my head.

"That isn't your job." he paused."your job isn't to help me. Your sole job is to do nothing. Don't ask frivolous questions, don't participate in nonsense." Darren tensed as he finished his mini lecture. "That is your job, Aya." his stare burned into me.

I scoffed and didn't reply. I cleaned his wound the best I could, beginning to resent him. Why should I help, right? Why should I be a good person? Why wasn't I allowed to make mistakes?

"Don't act like you're a saint," I said dryly, stepping away, my painted toenails suddenly became of importance. "For a bodyguard, you ask too many inappropriate questions. I'm your client, right? So start treating me like one." I lifted my head, my eyes turning dark. "The wind wasn't my fucking fault, I'm not a weather reporter!" I unexpectedly raised my voice, my face heating up.

"Well I told you not to go on the boat! You didn't listen!"

"I didn't!" I reasoned. "Do you really think I was going to go on the boat after the captain outed himself to be a perv?"

He stilled. His eyes glossed over and he was calm. "I didn't know where that boat was going to take you. Coupled with the fact that the captain revealed his true motives, I didn't want you to go."

My lips parted. My heart swelled in a way that it had never before. "I'm sorry, I really am."

He stood, clutching the arm rest of the chair as he slowly rose from his seat, and staggered forward. He groaned, gripping his shoulder and howled in pain. He fell to his knees.

I rushed by his side, eyes wide. The wound wasn't protected. I forgot to grab the surgical tape. "Shit," I cursed under my breath, running to the hallway. I rummaged through the medicine cabinet, urgently trying to find where I put the tape. By the grace of God, I found it tucked away in the corner and grabbed it.

I crouched in front of Darren, carefully moving his hand away and attempted to wrap him. "You're okay," I soothed him. "You're okay."

When I  was finished bandaging him, his droopy blue-green eyes stared back at me. "Why'd you have to laugh at me?"

I blinked, my cheeks turning pink. "What?"

"You laughed at me," he said, his tone fleeting.

I froze, staring mindlessly at him. "It..."

"I protected you and laughed at my efforts." he looked like he was about to melt from helplessness. Desperation glossed his eyes, and I couldn't help him with that.

It took everything out of me not to look at away. I was never good with confrontation. "I'm sorry, Darren. I didn't mean it. I didn't know you felt that way..."

"But you did," he urged, "you smiled, you held your mouth."

I did, didn't I?

I wish I could have told the rest of the party-goers to leave. I wish I hadn't laugh at him. Not with what I knew now, and he had a point. It was moments like these where you realize your a product of your environment, good and bad. Growing up, I'd always be the butt of every joke or helplessly cast aside. When Emaad started his tour for his debut album, Angel in White, back then, the public thought him and I were together.

The fans and press would call me foul names and point at me as if I was some commodity and not a person.

And tonight, I had unknowingly done that to Darren.

I wasn't any better, and it stung knowing it.

"I didn't realize," I said earnest, "what can I do to make up to you?"

He stood on one knee and hoisted himself up. "Don't." he helped me up as quickly as he let go of my hand.

I bit my lip, stopping myself from bursting into tears then and there. I turned around, my back turned to him. Maybe I should've been the one who'd fallen into the lake. I was used to the humiliation, the laughing, not being taken serious. I deserved it.

I was still a girl in the public's eyes. I was nobody.

"The last thing I wanted was to be humiliated," he said, sounding distant. "I didn't come here to faff about and sit in at fancy rich people parties, for God's sake. I came here to one job. I needed to turn my life around." the latter sentence was a blur to understand what he meant. With his time in the military and post-War reconstruction, it wasn't hard to piece together what he was trying to say.

But his tone made me assess that he wasn't ready to admit. Admit what? The hell would I know. But I wasn't going to ask. Not after this.

"Emaad told me it was my fault, too," I blurted, letting out a sigh. "So, go ahead, think me a monster; think me a fool; think me a brainless bimbo, for all I care. But never deny my efforts. I'm trying, you know. I needed to turn my life around, too."

I turned around, wrapping my robe tightly around my body so my skin wasn't exposed.

There was this softer side of him I never saw before that night. For all his antics, trifle, and making me want to kick a man's bulge in his pants, I realized he was just like me. He was a fighter. Only taller, white, had colorful eyes and a gorgeous smile. He also had far better hair that I did, but that was besides the point.

"I know."