A fractured fairytale

52

༻ Rose's POV ༺

Matt stuck to his word and took me to the library the next morning.

"Are you sure your arm is alright?" I asked him on the way, frowning down at the bandage wrapped around his right arm. It was no longer stained red with his blood, which I guessed was good. But I still didn't think he should be driving.

He only rolled his eyes. "It's fine, stop worrying," he said, a teasing smile on his face.

I dropped it. Pretty much. Occasionally, he caught me staring over at him when he was shifting gears, searching for any sign that he was in pain, but he gave nothing away. "Rose, baby, I hate to tell you this-," my stomach flipped at the name, "but this isn't the first time something like this has happened and I'm sure it won't be the last. I promise you; I wouldn't be driving if I wasn't fit to." He looked over at me, expression dead serious. "I wouldn't risk your safety like that."

This time, my stomach somersaulted. I was worried about him being in pain, but of course, Matt was more concerned with my safety. He was always looking out for everyone else above himself. It was both incredibly sweet and a little frustrating, because I wondered how often anyone looked out for him.

I didn't mention his arm again. We spent the morning in the library, me working on my English project, him starting his American history paper to earn the other half of his history grade. He wasn't pleased to hear that the paper he sat was only worth half of his grade and that there was still more he had to do.

We were mostly quiet while we worked, but, at exactly midday, he packed his things away. "Times up," he whispered, snatching the pen from my hand before I could finish my sentence. I snatched it back and held up a finger, knowing I'd forget my point if I didn't write it down now. He tapped his fingers on the surface of the desk impatiently.

To be completely honest, I was relieved to be done. I needed to hand this paper in soon but my wrist was throbbing from writing for hours on end. Most students used their computers but I didn't have one at home so didn't want to rely on being at school where I could access a computer. But that meant I hand wrote all of my assignments, including my ten-thousand-word short story.

"Come on, you're starting a whole other sentence," Matt whined after giving me a couple of minutes, keeping his voice low so he didn't disturb those around us. He stuffed the rest of his books into his bag and then snatched mine up off the floor. He shoved all my discarded textbooks into it and then grabbed the corner of the notebook I was writing in.

He started to tug it towards him. "No," I hissed, sliding my hand towards him as well so I could continue writing.

"Come on, we had a deal. It's passed midday. You're done."

"I need to write this while it's still in my head," I rushed out, voice growing a little louder in my panic. Someone on the table beside us turned to stare and I blushed. My handwriting got messier and messier as I rushed out the words desperately. "Give me thirty seconds," I whispered, eyes wide and pleading.

"Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight."

I rolled my eyes and scribbled a couple more sentences. "Twelve, eleven, ten, nine."

"Done," I interrupted, stretching my arm out and twisting my wrist in an attempt to relieve the ache that had formed.

"Good girl."

Hearing those words reminded me of the other night and I blushed profusely. Based on the smirk stretched across his lips, he noticed. My stomach fluttered as he packed my stuff away, raised to his feet and offered me his hand, my bag slung over his good arm and his own hanging off the shoulder of his bad one.