Golden Hour (GarouxReader lemon)

Part 2

So...I thought I'd finish this in two parts but turns out there'll be at least one more part! Oops! Haha! Sorry...Story just growing on me :)

~*~

I'm puttin' up a good fight but even the blazing colour of this golden hour light covering her body, and mine, can't keep me fully awake. Consciousness begins to mix with memories.

Weeks pass and I keep my distance, replaying the sights and sounds, her scent and her voice, in my agitated mind on nights when sleep doesn't come. When I ain't satisfied. When I need something more. When the trouble I've already courted hasn't been enough. When my hands fucking ache from being clenched into fists that I can't use. Then I remember the warmth of her kitchen, the taste of that pasta. Like I got to go to heaven for a night. And it inevitably leads me to that first moment... The sight of her in that window. And I can't say I feel the damn cold anymore as the memory of her does its job and after a while, after getting all that frustration out in the most pleasant way, I can finally sleep. Can't say it's a polite or gentlemanly thing to do but it is what it is. The things she does to me. She makes me lose all my manners, I smirk to myself. It's stronger than me. For once, something is.

I stay far away from the window. She doesn't have to know. And I need to wean myself off this. Can't keep chasing, hoping for somethin' that ain't never gonna happen anyway. Fuckin' idiot.

Stick to what you know best. The backstreets, the blood, the victory. There ain't nothing' else for me anyway. And I'm fucking sick of being told otherwise by that old bastard. Haven't seen him in a while. Must be long overdue for a visit. Fuck it. Might just stay away from this hell hole I'm supposed to call home for a few days. Court some trouble elsewhere. Who knows, I might even get lucky. And suddenly my mood has improved a great fucking deal as I head out, just after golden hour, just after she's come home safe and sound, locked away behind that bright coloured door, across the street, as far away as if in another life.

Those were a fun three days. The memory slides into my mind as I feel my eyes flicker, disturbed by the intense yellow glow falling through the window. I know I ain't supposed to find that fun anymore or do that shit, naughty naughty, and I try, I really fucking do, to be the good boy they all want me to be but this instinct, this desire is too strong. The only thing stronger is the desire for her, and so I gotta try and curb that bad habit but it's a work in progress. Those were a fun three days. And turns out I was fucking right, as always, and missed another lecture. They're were always all the same anyway.

I'd left right after golden hour, and I returned not long after golden hour. The shitty house just as cold and dark as I'd left it. For the first time in a while I need those bandages. It frustrates the fuck out of me but also gets me excited, new heights to aim for and all that, I think, strategise in my mind as I get this shirt off, well-worn and bloodstained after my three day holiday.

I get the towels, the bandages out. It's been a while, old friends. And then I stop. That knock. It ain't the cops. I know their arrival intimately by now. And it ain't that old fuckin' fool. I can either leave it and have it remain forever a mystery or... The knock again. Not urgent, curious if anything.

"Here, I-" her words stop in their tracks as she looks me up and down. Her hand, holding a plastic bag, about to be raised towards me goes a bit limp by her side. Her words change their tack. "What the hell happened to you this time?"
"Self-defense," I reply noncommittally. It may or may not be true. I ain't saying.
For a long time, I used to think her coming over that evening was just a happy coincidence. But as I've got to know her, I highly doubt that now.
"Little savage," she sighs and invites herself in. She's wearing this big winter jacket and it's the first time I've seen her in anything but her professional uniform.
Fuck. This place is a fucking embarassment I don't want her to lay her pretty eyes on but I have no power here.
"It's freezing in here!" she says as she sets the mysterious bag with a box inside on the table, sees the things I've got prepared on the bench.
I got nothin' to say. She's right. It's fucking freezing. And I'm used to it.
"Come here," she says, as if she's tired of my shit already, as she picks up the towel, or what's left of it, and runs in under the cold water, the only one available, in the empty sink.
"You don't have-" I try to stand my ground but with her it's futile.
"Come here," she says again and there I go.
She pulls one of the kitchen chairs closer to her and bids me sit down.
"You had a visitor," she says as she dabs the cold fabric against my cut lip.
I almost don't hear her at first as I feel her other hand under my chin, her warm fingers against my skin as she tilts my face up to her. She does it as if it's nothing. But I can feel her fingertips on my throat and...fuck. Those fuckin' thoughts again. I ain't never had something like this. Never had anyone touch me like that. Too used to taking hits to the face instead. This is...different. She's touching nothing but my face but it feels like it's everything.
"Oh, yeah?" I manage.
"An older gentleman at your door," she says as she presses the cold towel, so thin it has to be folded up four times, one more time against my lip before moving on to some cut I must have just above my cheek.
I don't reply. I don't want to think of that geezer. I just want to concentrate on her hands on me. The softness of her touch.
"Family?" She raises an eyebrow.
"No."
I must be lookin' pretty fucking dark because she goes quiet and I feel I've spoiled this new moment.
"He's...a teacher," I say, hoping to get her back. Anything for this moment to continue. Even if it means dragging up the goddamn past.
"From school?" she says, her curiosity getting the better of her as she rinses the towel, wrings it out before pressing it to my face again, something even a bit more gentle in her touch now.
"Nah."
She looks at me expectantly. One hand pressing the cold cloth to my forehead, the other still holding my jaw steady.
"He's my-" I remember to change to past tense "I used to go to his dojo."
"Ooh, so you're like a martial artist," she says, her eyes brightening. "How very bad ass of you," she teases. And usually this would piss me the fuck off but somehow I don't even mind too much.
"That explains it," she nods.
I don't know what it's meant to explain but I go along with it.
"He seemed like a nice man," she says. "I mean, from what I saw. I think he looked concerned."
Well ain't that fucking nice. I'm sick of hearing about everyone's fucking concern. They keep saying I'm walking a fine line there but I ain't been on the wrong side of the law.
No. That's a lie. I have. I'm just very good at what I do, see.
"Did you stop going?" she asks, referring to my dojo remark.
"It was a long time ago," I say. Is a year a long time? I got what I needed and then it was time to get the fuck out.
I gotta admit, I'm good at many things, but conversation ain't one of them. And she seems to sense this and drops the questions. Tells me a bit about her own family as she bandages me up. Something about having a brother who lives in another city and is some musician or whatever the fuck. Forgive me that I can't concentrate on what she's saying but her hands are running all over my chest, wrapping me up and I'm glad it's more or less dark in here because it would be a little awkward if she were to see this very strong response that I can't very well hide. Start to imagine her hands traveling lower, needing to check me over everywhere. It's a stupid fantasy but she makes my mind wander. Feeling her bare hands on me, knowing exactly what she looks like under all those layers of winter clothing, I start to imagine her doing exactly what she's doing right now but not wearing a fucking thing and sweet fucking Jesus I know what I'll be doing tonight once she's gone.