Fear

Chapter Two

A/N (BARELY PROOFREAD)

What the hell was she thinking?

She was either extremely high, a dimwit, or just plain insane.

Bringing an unconscious, scary, Naked, inhumanly huge, man, into her house? Dragging him inside had been the easy part, now what was she supposed to do with him? Maybe he's a serial killer, or a fugitive, or something bloody awful.

What the fuck was she thinking?

And as long as her brain was trying to configure itself, why not question why on earth she picked Canada. Why not Paris? You could've been anywhere in the world after Oregon Harlow, and you choose Canada.

Letting a sigh puff through her mouth, she stared at the gigantic body filling her living room, her couch was literally full of nothing but flesh, his legs, (or what she could get of his legs on the couch) were mostly over the side, of her sectional, dangling there like he was a child, a naked, unconscious child.

Which judging by the nakedness...he was not a child.

Stop thinking about that Harlow, this poor defenseless man is in your living room, and you're thinking about his...thing, don't take advantage of the poor lad.

She had never seen a man so large, his hands alone must have been the size of her head, and his feet probably the size of her thigh.

The whole body engulfing her living space was a scary thought, especially the fact that he was a male, had she known, there would've been a low chance of bringing him in.

But now he was here, and she had no idea what to do with him.

Was he in a coma?

Was he faking it?

Was he just asleep?

Oh good God Harlow, the poor man probably has hypothermia and you're having an internal Battle, go get him blankets.

She subconscious screamed.

Running up the stairs to her left, she kept a rhythm in her brain, blankets, fire, blankets, fire, turn up the heat too, blankets, fire, turn up heat.

Which for the most part felt like a good rhythm, despite the fact that she felt crazy.

On her way down the hall, she twisted the thermostat up ten degrees, and made her way to the hall closet, stacked full of blankets, ranging a shocking varying five degrees of colors, which- to even her was surprising. She hadn't even unpacked half her clothing, and yet she had time to unpack blankets.

Good Lord what is wrong with you Harlow, she mentally face palmed.

Instead of just standing looking like an idiot with four quilts piled in her arms, she raced back towards the unnamed man, spreading the blankets across the skin covering her poor couch.

She was going to have to burn everything when this guy got out of here.

If he got out of here.

Should she call 911?

That's what it was in America, it's 999 in the UK. What the hell is it in Canada?

Aw fuck, she probably should've looked that up before moving here.

Okay, calm yourself Harlow, or you're going to blow a vein in your already bloody fucked up head.

Sitting down by the fireplace, directly across from the couch, she began to roll up discarded newspaper that seemed to be present in every box, in the living room.