Unbreakable - A Beautiful Lie · (Roswell Fanfiction) · √

EIGHTY-SEVEN

"Sit."

He gave me a rueful half-smile at my order as I pointed at the toilet seat and went to search out some scissors. I looked at him over my shoulder, my eyes silently lingering on his face. On his downcast eyes as he put the toilet lid down and took a seat. On the dejection in his frame. On the drenching repercussions of having been out in pouring rain, of how it accentuated his detachment.

Sensing he was about to look up, I diverted my eyes before he could catch me staring, and refocused on the task of locating a pair of scissors. I'm not really sure why I was so certain that I would find scissors in this bathroom, but so far the bathroom had been stocked with just about everything.

"Do you actually know how to cut hair?" he asked to my back while I opened the door to the small cabinet above the sink, sifting through creams, toothbrushes, floss.

Slowly, I licked my lips, moving some of the articles around on the shelves to look behind them. A smile fluttered on my lips at the familiar tone in his voice. The know-it-all air that he usually surrounded himself with in public. To hide his big heart.

Teasingly, I asked, "You're not nervous, are you?"

His warm trust for me flooded the connection, forcing my eyes to momentarily close as my free hand gripped the edge of the porcelain sink to steady myself.

"Well..."

I loved the easy and light nuance to his voice. How it (albeit temporarily) erased any trace of the anguish in his soul.

"You trust me with a sharp razor close to your jugular vein, but not to cut your hair?" I asked incredulously in reference to when he had asked me to shave him upon our arrival at the hostel.

I closed the glass door to the cabinet as his playful amusement shot sharply across our connection, straight for my core, making a gasp of lust explode across my lips.

His voice was rich like hot thick smooth chocolate, dripping with his reciprocal to my desire, as he concluded slowly, "Fair point well made, Ms. Parker."

I could feel his eyes on my back, tracing down my neck, down my wet clothes. It had my skin explode in goosebumps. Had my insides quake with an indefinable need for his body. For him.

Instead of spinning around to cross the small distance between us, place myself on his lap and melt our lips together, I converted the longing into a strong shudder that had my body visibly shake, and forced my unsteady legs to carry me over to a tall white cabinet next to the shower stall.

My voice was breathy and weightless as I got out, "I've cut my dad's hair for ages."

He was very aware of my reactions. Something that further intensified my feelings. His mimicking emotions, which heated and stroke their way through my being, were making it very difficult for me to remain standing.

Something was changing within him. His thoughts were not clear-cut to me on the matter, but I could sense a tentative acceptance. An acceptance of his true origin. An acceptance of what it could mean for us. Of how it could - would - unite us.

And - apparently - it was building some kind of energy between us. Making the air in the space between us tremble with heat. Power. Electricity.

The air itself was tickling the fine hairs on my arms, heating my damp skin, shortening my breaths and intensifying my heartbeats.

The intensity of our surroundings was made even stronger by us pretending it was not there. By me trying to continue with the mundane search for scissors while Max was seated in stillness on the toilet seat.