My mother managed to sort Lea out. It wasn't anything serious – nothing broke, and the swelling should go down in a few days - but I had to be sure. Maybe I overreacted, but it looked bad. So, after getting my mother to speak to the school and ask for an afternoon off for Lea and me, we both said goodbye, and now we're heading home.

I'm still holding onto Lea's hand, and I really don't want to let go of it.

I don't know - I'm not sure what I feel at the moment, especially with the breakup with Georgia. But all I know is that I want to be close to Lea.

That's why this morning when I heard the Wilson's discussing properties that they'd be willing to rent out while their house gets rebuilt, I got a little bit uneasy.

I want Lea to stay in my house.

We finally get to the car, and I reluctantly let go of her hand. Climbing into the car and starting the engine, I start to back out of the space.

         "Thank you." She says quietly, after securing herself in with the seatbelt.

         I turn to her, confused.

         "Why are you thanking me?" I ask, slightly shocked.

         "You didn't have to do that; it was sweet of you." She explains. She doesn't look at me; instead, she stares out of the window at the bypassing houses that line the road I'm driving down.

         "Aren't I always sweet?" I smirk at her, peeling my eyes off the road for a split second, catching hers when she looks at me.

         "Well, you're a bit of a dickhead too." She mocks, turning back to the view outside this car.

         "That's kind of true." I agree, chuckling.

         "Kind of?" She says, as smugly as I did.

         We both laugh. Hers is beautiful. 

         Her face is just as attractive, but I don't want to look at her; it'll only make me sullen, knowing that we might not even have a chance, even if I'm single now. I shove the thought to the back of mind and turn on a serious note.

         "Are you ever going to tell me who hit you?" I question, all humor leaving my voice.

         She sighs, again staring out of the window – her hands tightly wrapped around the seatbelt, which hugs her upper body. She gently kicks at her school bag that rests between her feet; maybe she's nervous.

         "It doesn't matter, River."

         "Of course it does."

         "You can't do anything about it now," she huffs.

Reticent, I struggle to think of the right thing to say next. If she doesn't want to tell me, then she doesn't have to.

"Fine," I respond, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "You don't have to tell me, but can you promise me one thing?"

"Well, that depends on what the promise is." She replies, hesitantly.

"Promise me, that if Georgia does anything to harm you again, you tell me straight away, and don't hide it from me," I tell her.

Her straight lips part as her jaw drops marginally. Fidgeting in her seat, she tries to cover up her surprise. "How do you know it was Georgia? It might've been someone else."

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