Quiet Hate

Care

About an hour after König has fallen asleep, I realize what I've gotten myself into. I literally hate this man. He is rude and inconsiderate, and it's clearly intentional coming from a man who doesn't really speak to anyone else.

The anger slowly dissipates and I realize that I've cut up the one shirt he was wearing. I peer into the windows of his truck and see a spare shirt. I pull it out and a masculine scent wafts off of it.

Of its own volition, my arm moves the shirt towards my nose, as if to smell it - I realize what I'm doing and jerk it away. I close the truck door and come back inside.

I fold it neatly, placing that, along with a glass of water and some more aspirin, on the nightstand next to him. He breathes loudly, so I feel my work was successful.

Not long later, I go to bed myself. It's a restless night - my mind can't seem to relax with the annoying, awful man in my house. I get about five hours, on and off, before I just get up. I get ready, dressing myself in one of my favorite lounge sets. It's about six in the morning, so I do my best to be quiet.

König is still fast asleep. His glass of water looks untouched, but he's still breathing, so I head downstairs.

I pull out ingredients for a big breakfast. Eggs, bacon, waffles, pancakes, and hashbrowns. As much as I hate König, I have older sister syndrome, so I feel the need to take care of him, considering yesterday. But that feeling doesn't extend past pure obligation, of course.

Around an hour later, while I'm in the middle of washing dishes, food laid out on hot plates, I hear König come down the stairs.

No shirt.

I turn around, and then turn back around. "Do you need help getting dressed?" Maybe it's his shoulder.

"You went in my truck," he says.

"Barely. I peeked, saw a shirt, grabbed it, and got out," I say. "My bad for trying to help you out."

He slides into a seat at the kitchen island. "Did you make all of this for yourself, or...?"

"I don't like breakfast," I say in a quiet voice. "So, you."

"You... don't like breakfast."

"Eggs are for baking, bacon is for sandwiches, waffles are because I like them sometimes, and hashbrowns were a hungry buy at the store," I say. "I really just had stuff lying around." I finish up the pan I'm washing and turn around, ignoring his shirtless body at my counter.

I push the two loaded places towards him, along with another glass of water. "I don't have orange juice, though." I walk to my fridge, scanning the options. "I have some cold brew coffee or... Hawaiian Punch, I guess."

A strained, "Cold brew would be great," comes from König. He might be suppressing a laugh.

I pour him a cold brew, fixing it up the way I would, and push that towards him, too.

"Hawaiian Punch was also a hungry buy at the store," I say, frowning at him. "I'll let you eat in here and I'll eat on the couch. Mask and all."

"No, it's fine," he says. I look up in shock as he rolls up his mask to use under his nose. I can't help but frown as I see the mouth that he uses to speak. I don't evaluate anything else other than faint stubble and a masculine jaw, but everyone here seems to have that. In fact, I bet König is ugly.

I sigh, taking a seat one over from König, my seventies playlist rolling in the background. I begin to cut my waffle by each square. I feel König watching me, but choose to ignore him.

"What?" I ask as I start to dip each one in syrup, a bowl to my left.

"Nothing," he says, his voice strained again. With access to the lower half of his face, I see that he's fighting a smile.

Rolling my eyes, I start to eat. König and I finish around the same time, and so I collect our plates and start to wash them in the sink.

He comes up next to me, still fucking shirtless, and grabs the dish towel. He begins to dry.

I realize that this feels weirdly intimate, and that, without any shoes on, I feel even shorter than him. My head reaches, like, the middle of his bicep. I think of how scary those arms and hands were the other day, and blink those thoughts away at the plate I've probably been washing for a too-long amount of time. I hand him the plate, and he dries it, stacking it on the counter.

After a couple of minutes, everything is dried. I still haven't looked at him. I step around him and begin to put things away. He turns around and leans against the corner. He's left his mask rolled up.

"Um," I say, motioning to my face.

"What?" he asks, wiping the corners of his mouth with his fingertips.

"Nevermind," I say, because what an idiot.

I wipe off the counter, put away any items I've left out, and then am left with nothing to do. I pause, awkwardly, and finally bring myself to look at König in the eyes.

"Eye contact," he says, his voice probably mocking.

"I struggle with it," I say, my voice quiet. "Especially with people I dislike," I say, more confidently.

I have a stare-off with him, then, standing next to the kitchen island, looking up at him. Not really a stare-off, but more of a not-looking-away-off. I realize his eyes are gray, and he has long eyelashes.

I ignore that between his eyes and the lower half of his face, he's probably not ugly.

"You said my given name last night," König says. "I don't think even the 141 knows that."

"I did my research upon arrival," I say simply. "Couldn't find your first name, though, so I don't know everything."

"I don't go by Kilgore anymore," he says.

"I know," I say. "Had to get you alert enough since I couldn't drag your unconscious ass up the stairs. I don't plan to say it again."

König loses, then. He looks away. Triumphant, I smirk. I've won.

Pausing, I say, "Do you remember anything else from last night?"

König's brow furrows. "No. Did you take... advantage of me?"

I look at him in shock. "God, no," I say. "I would never..." It takes me a second to realize he's joking, judging by the smirk on his face.

"Why do you ask?" he says, my laughter dissipating.

I think to the Simon comment, or the hand-reaching. I decide to not bring either up.

"Oh, nothing," I say. "You were babbling on about something. It was incoherent."

"Right," König says.

"Yes," I say.

He moves first, then, and moves towards the stairs. "I'm going to grab my shirt," he says.

I nod. I check my phone to see if anyone from the team has maybe seen König's truck in my driveway - I hope no one has. I'm embarrassed enough to have shown him kindness, as is. That stops as soon as he leaves.

König is gone a moment too long. I start up the stairs, silently, but he's just casually standing in the guest bedroom, on his phone.

"Sorry," he says. "Want me to make the bed?"

I shake my head. "No, I'll wash the sheets."

At the kitchen, again, I gather up a few more of the heavy-duty bandages and hand them to him. I don't miss the way his fingers accidentally brush mine, but I do yank my hand back with a frown.

König heads to the door. I follow, opening it for him.

"Thank you, Flora," König says after a moment.

"Yeah," I say. "Just... don't let that happen again. Can't have anyone thinking we're friendly," I say, jokingly, but the serious implication in my words is clear: I don't fucking like you, dick.

Our eyes meet for a moment that stretches into several seconds. Me looking up at him, him looking down at me. The heaviness of the past evening hanging in the air between us.

And then, as if it's evaporated, he nods at me, and steps out. I close the door behind him and hear his truck pull away.