Alice

I've always hated moving into a new place.

It just means new environments, packing and unpacking things, removing things and building them back up... It's exhausting.

I'm thankful when Felix volunteers to bring the moving truck back to the rental shop, that way I can unpack the rest of my boxes, hanging my clothes in the closet and things like that. Considering I don't own too many things it's all arranged pretty quickly, and by the time evening rolls around I'm already done, but it's not time for dinner yet, which would be one of my tasks I guess.

In order to kill time I take a tour of the house, on my own, because I have no idea where my broody and way too handsome roommate is, to be honest. I don't even know which one of the five other rooms is his bedroom. Not that I care.

I totally don't.

But I do care about the interior of this house - I just have to admit, it's extraordinary. The bathroom furniture is beautiful, copper fittings and old-fashioned ceramic tiles on the floors and walls give them a very rustic vibe, all while looking brand new. It's the perfect balance, really.

There's one guest room upstairs, right next to my room, while the library I already saw is adjacent to what I would guess is supposed to be an office, but it's neither furnished nor painted, no idea what he wants to do with that. And then there's the last room only a door away from both the library and the office, which must be Elijah's room, in conclusion.

I don't dare to knock or peeking inside, who knows whatever the hell he's doing, and so I decide to check out the kitchen, since that will probably be where I spend most of my time here at home.

Home.

Feels weird to call it that, somehow.

And still, I try to treat it as one. Placing my beloved porta filter machine on the counter I wipe over the surface, letting the cold marble graze my skin as I take a deep breath, trying to come to terms with everything. This is so much to consider, so much to think about. It's a lot, really. But I try to juggle it all, try to not let the anxiety overwhelm me.

Cooking always calmed me, at least it did for a long time. But then I started working at that restaurant, and it was really only a matter of weeks until my passion became my nightmare, simply because I got stuck in it. It was awful, and I hope I can come back to find the joy in it.

But first I have to make sure I feel comfortable here. I can only enjoy cooking when I feel safe in my kitchen, when I enjoy being here.

Plants always helped me with that, which is why I brought the ones I had home with me. Granted, most of them are cacti because I suck at watering them all at the right time, knowing where they need to be placed, not too much sun and still enough for them to do their thing... There's a reason biology is a science, really.

I place them all around the kitchen and living room, as well as in my room, and then I decide to at least try to be a good roommate; Maybe Elijah will appreciate a cactus in the library. He can't do much wrong with that, even though I don't think he'd actually be interested in it...

Well, whatever. He'll live.

I rush to the library, one of my finest cacti in hand as I step through the frame, but then I suddenly stumble over something, sending me face forward to the ground. The only way I can prevent smashing my face into the table is by steadying myself on my hands, which then ends up with the goddamn cactus in my palm. "Fuck!"

A sharp pain runs through my hand and wrist, and I slowly get back on my feet to inspect the damage. "Oh, you're fucking kidding me..."

There's about two dozen cactus thorns in my palm and wrist, some of them actually rather deep.

"Alright, now I'm pissed, who..." I look around the room, trying to find the culprit that made me trip, only to realize that it was, in fact, "Me. It was me. Wow..." I mumble when I realize that it's my box in front of the door that sent me falling.

Great... Now I have to clean my own mess up.

I sigh when I walk into the kitchen, looking for a first-aid-kit or anything like that, because I obviously don't own one. Not that a cook would need one, in any event...

But, considering I literally just moved in here, I can't find one. That leaves me with only one solution.

Great times two...

I knock on Elijah's door before leaning against it as I wait for a response, but instead I almost fall into the room when he opens the door without making any noise whatsoever, and I only manage to hold on to the doorframe. A hiss escapes my lips when the thorns dig deeper into my skin from the impact, sending another wave of pain straight through my fingers.

"Fucking hell..."

He just eyes me when I shake my head, as if that would somehow ease the pain, and I can't deny that I'm immediately getting pissed again when his lips turn into a smirk as he asks, "So, that's what all the noise was about?"

Of course, he heard it. And of course, he didn't bother asking if I'm okay, asking if I needed help...

"Do you have a first aid kit and some tweezers?" I ask, so close to exploding right in his face for this mind-blowing disrespect.

And now he actually smirks. Bloody hell, he smirks!

Elijah steps away from the door, revealing his bedroom and waving me inside. "Sit down." He nods toward the bed, but I just narrow my eyes, trying to figure out what the hell he's getting at.

I said it before and I'll say it again. I can't figure this guy out. "Why?" I ask, but he just sighs as he rummages in one of his cabinets before he turns around, those steely grey-blue eyes meeting mine.

"Would you just do as I say please?"

Well, at least he said please...

I hesitate for a second, but then he shoots me a look that not only scares the hell out of me, but also makes me weak to the knees - because holy hell, he is one delicious specimen of a man... And so I listen to him, sitting down on the bed without thinking twice. Only seconds later does he pull a chair in front of me and sits opposite to me, holding out his palm when he orders, "Show me your arm."

He pulls some tweezers out of the first aid kit, the sight of this little piece of metal between his large fingers is somehow disturbing and comical, but undeniably fitting at the same time. "I don't even know how qualified you are for this. I'm a cook, you know. I'm pretty sure my fingers are more trained for this kind of stuff than yours."

And again a smirk plays on his lips, this time it doesn't infuriate me, but instead sends the heat right into my cheeks when I realize what exactly I just said to him.

"You don't even know what I do or did or can do," he says, and I have to admit I'm surprised that he didn't comment on my involuntary innuendo.

I distract myself by studying him, once again noticing the dog tags around his neck. Now that I see them close up, I'm pretty sure they're authentic. Combined with his whole attitude and posture it's easy to draw a conclusion. "Well, you want to hear my guess?" I ask, the smirk still steady on his lips as he leans back, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Shoot."

"Well," I immediately fire, "It's obvious you served. The way you handle yourself and treat others at the same time means you were pretty high up. I'm guessing special forces or something like that. I'm not sure which part you played in that exactly, but you definitely called some of the shots at least, I'm pretty sure about that. What I do know is that you were no army medic."

He cocks an eyebrow, challenging my statement when he asks, "And how do you know that?"

Now I'm the one smirking when I nod toward the first aid kit in his hands. "That's less than standard. Any medic who is proud of being one, and you definitely are a proud person, would use proper equipment."

He just looks at me for a moment, just studies me like he's trying to find the meaning of life in my very being, before he suddenly shakes his head with a now rather amused smile on his face. "Not bad."

I can't help but grin when he holds out his palm again, and for some reason I trust him, gently placing my hand in his own. The second our skin collides I feel this jolt of electricity zapping through me, the impact almost making me flinch. His eyes instantly meet mine, and I see that he felt it, too, whatever the hell that was.

We hold our gaze for a second, and for just a fleeting moment do I see something in his eyes, a fire, a storm, one that draws me in, screams for me...

But then he looks away, and the moment goes as swiftly as it came, leaving me breathless and with my heart hammering in my chest when he readjusts himself, his eyes now focused on my hand when he asks, "May I?"

And I can't even speak anymore, I just nod my head when he starts removing the thorns one by one. Despite my earlier statement I have to admit that it looks like this is not the first time he's doing this. There's something fluid in the way he picks every single thorn with so much care.

I avert my gaze when I notice that his left knee looks a bit bigger than his right, his jeans straining like there is something bandaged around his joint. I'd like to ask him about it, ask what happened to him, but I'm guessing this happened when he served, and I don't want to make him uncomfortable.

Besides that, he doesn't really seem like the chatting, talking, kind. He's the epitome of tall, dark, and broody.

He looks up at me, and I immediately avert my gaze to meet his own, seeing how he narrows his eyes at me before he says, "Those might hurt."

I look down at my hand, only now realizing that he's almost done, only a few more on my wrist are sticking out of my skin. "Okay..."

His grip on my arm tightens and he pulls it closer toward him, right into his lap, that fact alone has me closing my eyes. I really don't need to know just how close I get to him. Still, I feel the tension between us building when he readjusts his grip on my arm, followed by him clearing his throat.

I want to smirk at that, but instead I almost hiss when he suddenly pulls at one thorn that's stuck in the skin. I keep myself together by biting on my lip until he plucks the last ones out as well, leaving a stinging pain with every single one.

I open my eyes when I realize he must be done, and I have to swallow when I see him staring straight at me, his steely eyes diving straight into my soul. He narrows his eyes, like he's trying to figure me out, like he's trying to read me... But then he focuses on my lips, and I realize I'm still biting down on my bottom lip to try and contain the stinging pain from those thorns.

"Are you... Done?" I ask, somehow finding my voice, licking my lips in an attempt to soothe the imprint my teeth left.

He clears his throat while he turns on his chair, reaching for the first aid kit on the floor next to him. "This might sting a little."

I watch how he pours some of the disinfectant liquid onto a gauze pad, and I'm amazed by how gentle he moves when he brushes it over my skin, like I'm a fragile porcelain doll he's afraid to break. It still stings, but somehow his touch is so gentle that I don't dare say anything, feeling like I'd scare him off if I made a sound now.

"Okay... All done," he says, clearing his throat once more as he throws the gauze into the bin and releases my hand, which suddenly feels very cold and lonely as I study it in my lap. "How the hell did that even happen?"

I roll my eyes at his question, although I can't help but smirk when I answer, "I'm very clumsy."

That makes him smile as well, and he nods before he gets up and starts cleaning up the equipment, shaking his head as he stores everything back where it belongs. I use the time to look around the room, noticing a variety of awards, medals, and pictures hanging on the walls. There are still some unopened boxes lying around, which means the medals and awards were the first thing he put up when he got here.

I'm not an expert at military awards or anything like that, but these look very important, so I'm guessing I was right about my observation.

"Well, I still need to unpack, so..."

I didn't even realize how long I've been looking around his room, and when I look at him I notice this faint hint of curiosity and annoyance on his features, almost like he can't decide what to think.

"Oh. Yeah, sorry." I get up when I see him standing by the door already, and I almost shiver when I rush past him, the simple scent of his aftershave drives me mad.

Good god, Alice. Get your act together.

"Thank you," I stammer for good measure, figuring he deserves as much. He did help me out after all.

"Sure..." He nods, our eyes meeting again, like magnets we just always find our gaze, always find the orbits we crave. I'm so mesmerized by his own, they convey such a variety of emotions, it just makes me want to figure them all out. It makes me want to know who he is and what happened to him.

But then I remember that this arrangement is not entirely voluntary. It makes me wonder what he actually thinks of me; The way he looks at me tells me he's asking himself the same thing, so I'm guessing there's a lot we should talk about.

Should we?

This is just an arrangement after all...