𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 ✓

FIFTEEN

-

I would've never thought to ever miss bickering with Sebastian so much. But here I am, the day after the almost-kiss, with a fuzzy brain and deep regrets that take over my entire guts. It feels like someone punched me in the stomach with a metal boxing glove. He is sitting on his couch, typing something on his laptop, while I stand in the kitchen, watching him. In my hand is the mug of coffee I made. Upon asking him whether he wanted some, too, he ignored me like he did all morning. All I got was a glare so short I almost didn't grasp the pain in his eyes. The thought of that makes me gulp. I wish I knew what's going on in that brunette head of his.

Not talking to him almost hurts more than the teasing and insults we always exchange. It's gut-wrenching to see him avoid eye contact at all costs. This is torture.

"I think I'll be going to the store later," I sigh, setting my mug down. A grunt in a somewhat agreeing tone is my answer. He doesn't even stop typing. Had he done that before last night, I wouldn't have been giving this a second thought. Now, after we were so close to each other, after I felt his breath on my lips, yearned for the distance between them to close... It's like another punch in the guts. I wish he would talk to me.

"It's a long drive, I'll be gone for like two hours, maybe longer," I inform him. He nods without further comment. I clench my jaw and rush to the bedroom to change from my sweatpants to jeans. Just as I slide down my current pants, I hear the door open. I whirl around. Sebastian gulps. I only wear a tight, brown t-shirt that has glided up to my belly button and my black panties. My breath catches in my throat, and I cough. This seems to get him back to reality.

"Sorry," he mumbles almost inaudible, his gaze drifting to the bedroom window to avoid looking at me. "I wanted to ask you whether you could get some more of that orange juice."

I quickly put on the jeans, light blue wash ones that I know will stick to my skin as soon as I step outside, and let my hair down from the messy bun it had been in. 

"Sure," I say, looking at him with an uneasy stomach. He doesn't react, doesn't move. So, naturally, I walk up to him, planning on squeezing myself past him to get to the hall. As soon as I approach him, his head jolts to me, his blue eyes widened. I instantly stop in my path, which makes us stand very close to each other. Not as close as last night, but almost. And I catch myself wishing I had the guts to take a step closer. Oh God, this is so weird.

"Orange juice," I mutter with a faint nod and then fulfill my plan of walking past him. For a second, his body tenses up as my arm touches his. I'm pretty sure I've never been so tense in my life just from someone's touch. His touch. His touch makes me want more.

No. This is Sebastian, your work nemesis. Not Sebastian, the incredibly handsome guy you want.

--

When I come back from the grocery store, the sun has reached its highest point. I basically feel like I'm boiling and am really glad I finally can escape the stuffy heat of the car. I carry the three heavy bags inside. 

"Home," I yell through the cabin, but Sebastian is nowhere to be found. I shrug to myself and start to put the groceries away, including the biggest container of OJ they had in stock. I find myself wondering where he went, but tell myself I don't have to know. It's not like we're friends. Just co-workers who almost kissed.

I quickly rush to my room to change out of those jeans I mistakenly wore. They stick to my skin as I peel them off. I replace them with a skirt, a flowy one with a floral pattern that is actually rather short compared to the ones I usually wear. But this is vacation, sort of, so I decide to not further care. 

I also decide that I'm hungry. Since I left the house, almost three hours have passed. My stomach growls as if on command. I pat my belly, thinking about what to eat now. I settle on pasta with green pesto, easy and quick. So, I rush to the kitchen. Sebastian is still nowhere to be seen, but I notice the porch door is open. He's outside.

I force myself to not give this any further thought and begin to boil water in a pot. I watch the tiny bubbles form on the bottom before rising up. It's mesmerizing. I try to get my thoughts back to work. What I want my article to be like. Structure, tone, do I want pictures? I decide to take some pictures of the lake later, at sunset. 

Caught up in my thoughts, I almost don't even register that someone enters the living room through the porch door. I side-eye them, just to make sure it is, in fact, my co-worker. My heart drops at the sight.

He rubs a towel over his wet hair, his black swim trunks sticking to his glistening skin. He went swimming.

I gulp and try to act like I didn't see him. With slightly shaking hands, I open up the pesto.

"You're back," his voice reaches my ears through what seems to be one hundred layers of cotton. My mind just spins around the fact that he is standing mere feet away from me, shirtless and still wet from the swim. Calm down, Charlie, I swear to God.

"Yup," I quickly say to play off my nervousness. My gaze is fixated on the now truly boiling water. Automatically, I put the pasta in and set a timer to seven minutes. Seven minutes in which I won't take my eyes off this pot. Yeah, right. You know yourself better, Emmons.

"I was just out for a swim," he casually says. I hear his steps approaching and hold my breath. I don't want to seem weird, so I briefly smile up at him.

"I know," I say. Great. That wasn't weird at all, was it? Okay, sarcasm.

"Did you get the orange juice?"

"F-Fridge," I answer, and curse myself for stuttering. Why would I even stutter? Maybe because he looks like he's carved by Greek Gods?

"Great. At least something you didn't screw up."

I should be thankful that he seems to be over that awkward ignoring phase and went back to insulting me whenever possible. Instead, I feel my pulse in my throat. I glare at him as he comes closer. It's difficult to stay focused on his face.

"I just need a glass," he mumbles, rather talking to himself than me. He reaches for the cabinet over the stove. Now, his shirtless body is almost touching me. I can smell him. I can feel his body heat radiating through the fabric of my shirt. Little drops of water fall off his hair and land on my arm. They're cold, but to me, it feels like they're burning hot. I suck in the air between clenched teeth.

"Are you alright?" he asks as casual as ever, and I tilt my head in his direction. Glass in hand, he still stands so insanely close to me. Like last night.

I clear my throat and nod, my eyes glued to his. I don't want him to think I stare at his body. 

"Your pasta is boiling over, Emmons," he informs me, and then, he's gone. Hectically, I turn the heat of the stove down while he gets the OJ from the fridge. I gulp hard, trying to ignore the heat that has pooled in my lower stomach. What the hell is going on with me?