enemies to lovers one shots

arrows

An exasperated curse left my lips as I stared at the wayward arrow that had missed its mark for the eleventh time. 

Other arrows lay in the ground, some stuck in trees, but never the sack of rice with the small black circle drawn on the center of it - the actual target.

"Need some help?" the smug voice of the devil incarnate spoke. I turned around and sent him the piercing glare his irritating comments always received. 

His hard and lanky frame lay relaxed, leaning against a wooden bench in the shade of a large tree, while I stood out on the fields in the blistering heat of the sun and miserably failed at learning how to use a bow. 

It was unfair, really, when you thought about it. 

Everyone knew I was more than adept with my sword and dagger skills. With any weapon that had a sharp metal blade, really. What did I need a bow and arrow for? 

But of course, he was the best in the entire academy at archery. So while I suffered, he got to watch, relaxing. 

"No, thank you," I said, the venom seeping through the polite words. 

If it wasn't already hard enough for me to learn to use a stupid string and pointy wood, he had to be here, distracting me and making it even harder to concentrate. 

I stretched my sore muscles and prepared myself for another shot. The bow went back in my dark tanned hands and the heavy, uncomfortable feeling returned. 

Before I could move the arrow into place, a pair of large hands gripped the bow, just above and below where my hands were. I felt the blow of hot breath and a presence behind me. The brush of our shirts, the large chest against my back, the sturdy legs behind me. 

I stood frozen, not knowing how to deal with his unexpected arrival. He leaned closer, and I smelt the subtle musk of sandalwood. I'd never been this close to him before.

"Your hand needs to be higher, for balance," his voice was soft but close enough to my ear for it to feel thundering. Or maybe that was my heartbeat. 

My hand was limp as he took it and guided it upwards a few inches. He resettled it, having to physically squeeze it around the slender wood of the bow for me to awaken from my daze.

"Feel any different?" he asked again, and I shivered, despite the warmth. 

I wanted to push him away, to tell him I was fine, that I could figure it out on my own, but if those eleven shots said anything about my skill it was that I desperately needed help. 

And although he was the last person I would ever ask help from, he was the best archer to teach me. 

I wanted to clear my throat, it felt like someone had stuffed a squirrel down there, but I was too afraid to disturb the quiet silence we were in. 

I settled for a nod. 

His voice was different than it usually was. Not mocking anymore, but genuine. "Keep yourself straight, taut."

His hand went to my back, fingers pressing slightly against the fabric of my white tunic to signal me to straighten up.

I pulled myself higher, mainly to escape his touch. His fingers fell away from my back, brushing lightly against the bare skin of my shoulder as they went back to the bow. 

I wasn't breathing anymore. I wasn't aware of the hot sun, or even the target in front of me. Only the boy standing behind me, unbelievably close and yet not close enough to touch. 

It was scaring me, the way his touch affected me. I hate him, I tried reminding myself, I should have thrown him on the ground by now.