White Sheets | ✓

n e v e r

  Later that night, Jean came over again, her right hand holding on to a case of beer while her left hand clutched her bag tightly.

  "Is everything ready?" Jean asked him immediately when she stepped inside. She kissed him softly on the lips.

  "Yep," Allen murmured against her lips, refusing to let her go. God. She tasted fúcking heavenly. And she tasted a bit like spearmint, too. He deepened the kiss but Jean pulled away first, catching her breath and smiling seductively.

  "Ah, ah, ah," she chided, shaking her head, an amused smile playing on her lips. "Not yet, baby. At least let me finish my beer and The Walking Dead, yeah?"

  Allen nodded. "Of course. I'll just fix us some food to eat." He bent down and picked up the beer and said, "You can go ahead and watch already, Jean."

  Jean, who was sitting comfortably on the couch, looked up at him and pouted. She even tilted her head to the side and batted her eyelashes. Allen felt himself get hot. And bothered. And hard. Goddámn, Jean. What are you doing to me?

  "What's with the pouty lips, baby?" Allen said, trying his best to distract himself by staring at the walls.

  Right now, all he wanted to do was sit on the couch and make out with Jean until he couldn't remember his name anymore. But of course, he didn't want her to run away, so he tried to act calm and collected.

  In a split second, her pout turned into a wicked grin. "Just wanted to look cute for you, baby."

  It took all his willpower not to take her right here, right now. With his breath caught in his throat, he forced a small smile on his lips, then he turned around abruptly to make his way to his kitchen.

  He needed to distract himself. Fast.

  Or he could go straight to the bathroom to fix the bulge in his pants, but he knew that Jean didn't like to be kept waiting, so he chose to keep quiet and make their food already, even if the bulge in his pants was pretty evident.

  Hours later, Allen had her screaming his name repeatedly. Thank God. He had patience, alright, but there were times when he wanted to stop whatever they were doing and just make love. Or in Jean's terms, fúck.

  And since he knew how Jean was pretty much obsessed with this guy Glenn—although she was really devastated when he brutally died in the episode they watched earlier—Allen decided to let her watch her series in peace. So he watched with her.

  But as of right now, they were nothing but tangled legs, sweaty bodies, and heavy breathing. Jean was so beautiful, he didn't want to let her go. She was smiling up at him, a dazed smile painted on her full lips.

  "I love you," Allen admitted, the words that slipped out of his mouth felt unfamiliar, but it was also liberating. He was relieved to finally tell her how he really felt.

  Maybe it was the alcohol talking, because he wasn't planning to tell her anything, but hell, if he never opened his mouth to say anything, what would happen if she left without saying goodbye? He'd be forever waiting in limbo, never knowing what or how she would react to his confession.

  The euphoric look in her eyes disappeared in an instant and was replaced by confusion. "What?"

  "I love you," he repeated slowly, enunciating each word with conviction, his eyes burning with fierce sincerity. His heartfelt confession was so unexpected, he was beyond terrified of the rejection that was surely on its way.

  Allen stayed frozen, his eyes searching desperately for any hint of expression in her face aside from confusion and suspicion.

  Sadly, Jean's furrowed eyebrows and her still-dazed-and-confused-from-what-you-just-told-me look did not falter at all.

  "What the hell are you talking about, Allen?" Jean demanded, her hazel eyes blazing.

  Allen swallowed the lump in his throat, but he still couldn't seem to find his voice. "I... I—Jean, I l-love y—"

  "Don't you dare finish that goddāmned sentence," she said threateningly, throwing Allen another bout of daggers as she stared up at him, her whole body tensed and ready to get away.

  That's how she always dealt with shïtty situations—she'd feel the adrenaline rushing in her veins, her mind already weighing in the better decision: fight or flight?

  There had been instances in her life wherein she had wanted to chose the former, but as much as she wanted to fight for what she believed in, for what she thought was right, for someone worth fighting for, she'd always, always choose the latter.

  Jean knew for a fact that people saw her as someone who was fierce and brave and passionate because of the façade she had put on ever since she was a kid, but deep down, she was nothing but a scaredy cat.

  She had her fair share of boyfriends throughout her high school years and her stay here in the university, but no one ever dared to say those frightening words to her.

  Jean had heard it come out of her father's lips, so casually, so effortlessly, as if he had no trouble at all in telling her mother how she was the prettiest woman in the world and how he'd love her until his last breath, only to betray his wife by fücking his slutty assistant at the office, and he still had the guts to yell at her every night and accuse her of cheating, and her mother would cry helplessly, and after every goddámned fight, she would take him back with open arms, as if he never fûcked up his wife and his own daughter, who always tried to block out all the shouting but still heard it clearly in her nightmares.

  And every night, Jean would tell herself that she would never be as stupid and forgiving and naïve and vulnerable as her mother. Never.