Hierarchy of Need [t.r]

Chapter Twenty

Their eyes caught each other as he undid the buttons, and neither could find their will to look away. Tom untucked his shirt when he was finished and shrugged it off before holding it tightly in his hands, which were clenched in front of him.

Delilah found her eyes trailing down his chest, her appreciation of his toned figure clouded by the sight of numerous scars. Her hand twitched to reach out and touch him.

"Curious, aren't they?" He mused dryly, watching her carefully. He felt rather exposed, and he didn't know why. Which bothered him. She wasn't the first girl to see him shirtless, so why were his hands shaking? Delilah looked up at him with a raised brow due to his tone.

Tom trailed his eyes up to the caved ceiling, letting a faux thoughtful look veil his features. "If I recall correctly, I was hit with a rather nasty and dark spell." Her eyes widened then as realization dawned on her, she looked back at his chest and arms, at all the scars. Some much deeper than others. "Fucking hell."

Turning around, Delilah took in his back and she winced. Scars also littered his back, curving around his muscles like misdirected contour lines. There were numerous tiny gashes which were new, thanks to the glass. Most of the bigger pieces came out when he took off his coat and shirt, but smaller pieces were still wedged in his skin.

She waved her wand to get rid of the glass shards and went to work on cleaning the cuts. "Well at least you won't be getting any new scars." She joked, a nervous laugh passing her lips. Tom looked over his shoulder at her with an unimpressed brow cocked. "Pity."

Ignoring his satirical tone, she flicked her wand and closed all the cuts. His back now mostly smooth and removed of all blood, his muscles still seemed taut.

"Finished," she didn't mean for it to come out as a whisper, but he heard her. Tom turned and the distance seemed to shrink, they were probably six inches from each other.

Each drowning in the others presence, yet completely unaware.

Tom looked down at his shirt, which was pretty much done for. That was the second shirt Delilah inadvertently ruined by getting him cut up. Silence stretched between them like a tense rubber band, and it was about to snap.

He opened his mouth but paused, trying to find the right wording. His dark eyes then trailed up and took in her features, which were lightly dusted with ash yet it seemed to make her eyes glow. "Are you alright?" Tom finally said, his voice low and even. Anything louder would feel like a scream.

She shrugged and wrapped her arms around herself, "not really." The image of the mother and child kept flashing like a street sign, blinding her. "Will you be?" A strange invisible dome of comfort seemed to lace around them, almost creating an entire environment of nirvana between their bodies.

Delilah took in a breath, which she didn't know if it was a mistake or not. With his shirt off his scent became stronger; burnt wood, parchment, and cigarettes. Despite herself, over the past few weeks she's found herself seeking out that smell, wanting him around without realizing it.

"Maybe...no." She shook her head and looked down at her feet. "I don't see how anyone could be okay after seeing something like that." Tom nodded, turning his head away from her to look out the dingy window.

Empathy was something lost on him, but even he could admit something like that was troubling to watch. He himself never experienced motherly love, but the notion was hard to miss during the war. His mind reeled back to the woman clutching her son, her mouth hung open in agony as she tore apart her lungs with a scream.

Tom felt a chill roll up his spine. If loving someone and then losing them was that painful, why would anyone let themselves fall in the first place? Whether or not it was simply platonic. He shook his head and looked down at Delilah, she'd probably punch him if she heard his thoughts.