▪︎𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦,
𝗜'𝗱 𝗱𝗶𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁
𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂.
in which an ordinary girl soon finds out that she's not as ordinary as she once thought, all while trying to hide her f...
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♡ 𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 ♡ 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 seventy-three
you can be the boss.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
WARNING: ADULT AND EXPLICIT CONTENT TOWARDS END OF CHAPTER.
ANTISEPTIC. It was all Dallas could smell as she sat alone in the hospital. Fabric cleaners, artificial fragrances, and soapy cotton buds. Some are a little bitter, others much too sweet.
She clutched her rib cage with a shaky hand as fragility followed her seat on the cushioned mattress. Her defective form struggled to split a stream of blood from one vein to the other. Sleepy eyes blinked through seasons as colours seeped into the wide iris, a white frosty winter and warm brown autumn.
Dallas felt warm hands gather around her arms while the doctor furrowed his eyebrows at her unusually cold pigmentation.
Adolescent eyes glared into his frame, eating up his bare skin like baked gingerbread, and swallowed at the smell of watery red velvet coarse through his veins. Chocolate-dipped freckles frowned over a gumdrop nose and warm oven mitts stroked her cold hands.
"What did you say this was from?"
Dallas felt bakery scents mist away and iodoform spill in the gaps between the air as the man met her eye and formed back into exactly that. Just another ordinary man.
"Uh," She cleared her throat and forced a blink. "Gave too much blood at the drive."
Dallas pretended not to notice his side glances. She'd ignore the small tuts and tsk of his lips. All in all, she tried to focus on anything but his presence - and how much she wanted to inhale all of it at once.
She ran a silver tongue across rows of minty teeth and lingered her eyes on him through the droplets of water that sat on her eyelashes as he spoke.
"And the collarbones?"
A cushioned bed squished beneath Dallie's thighs. Soft cotton rode up against her skirt, along with soft quilted sheets that rubbed warmth on the skin.
She breathed steadily. "Lacrosse is a nasty game."
He hummed. Furrowed tightly-knit eyebrows, then hummed again.
Dallas could do nothing but breathe and feel wet paper towels swipe at her stung collarbones. Hair that fell from behind her ears was quickly tucked away and heavy eyes blinked away the tiredness that lingered above the lid.
She squinted them when a flashlight coaxed her irises.
"You need a blood transfusion." The man paused while glasses hung from the tip of his nose. "Quite a few iron supplements, some stitching, and honestly? A good drink of water would help. I've never seen someone so dehydrated in all my years of medicine."
