Damaged

17 | relapse

I wake up with a jolt and my heart starts beating maniacally in my chest. I crawl to the headboard and sit up, trying to figure out where I am, again. I look around desperately trying to find something familiar and my breathing starts speeding up.

"Hey, hey, relax." I hear from the corner of the room and my head snaps to that direction. The person stands up from a armchair and turns a lamp on. The brightness blinds me and forces me to close my eyes but I squint at the figure.

"The fuck?" I ask, the breath leaving my lungs with surprise. Mr Clarke stands on the corner of the room with a surprised expression on his face. I press myself to the headboard tighter and look at his with apprehension, "Where am I? What are you doing here?"

He walks towards me carefully as if he's afraid of what I may do. He slowly sits on the bed and looks into my eyes, "About five hours ago I found you having a anxiety attack on the middle of the street. You passed out and I didn't know what to do, so I brought you here."

"Where's here?"

"My apartment," he says and looks down. I realize that i'm currently laying in his bed, inside his home, and i blush. He could have taken me to the hospital pops into my head and I wonder why he didn't.

"Thank you," I say fiercely, meaning every syllable, "I don't know what would happen if i stayed on the street like that."

"You don't need to thank me," his eyes are soft as he looks at me,the light from the lamp illuminating him from behind and making his seem otherworldly.He frowns and then looks at the wall contemplatively.

"Come on, you better eat something," he gets up from the bed and looks down at me. I'm practically curled into a ball against the headboard and I must look like a utter mess. He extents his hand and I look at it for a moment before deciding to do the same.

I place my hand on his large one and feel a spark of electricity as I do so. I gasp at the contact and look at his eyes. He gently pushes me up and helps me off the bed. The coldness of the hardwood floor reaches my feet and make me shudder. He walks in front of me and I follow his tall figure through the apartment.

We walk through a corridor which leads to the spacious living room. The first thing I notice in the room is the wall with floor-to-ceiling shelves overflowing with books. The covers differ in size, shape and color and are in a perfect disarray throughout the living room and shelves. There's a dark brown leather couch on the center of the room along with a coffee table  and comfortable looking armchairs in front of it. A wooden desk full of stacks of papers rests against the royal blue wall of the apartment, making it seem manly yet comfortable.

There's a stainless steel island on the back of the room and the small kitchen is behind it. He leads me there and makes me sit on one of the stools as he crosses into the open kitchen. I watch as he opens the fridge and starts pulling condiments and different types of foods from inside.

"Is spaghetti okay?" He looks at me questioningly.

"You honestly don't need to-"

"You need to eat," he says seriously while cutting me off.

"Spaghetti's fine." He nods and continues preparing dinner.

I stare at his back as he works, admiring how his muscles move under the thin white shirt he's wearing. He pulls a cutting board from under the sink and starts chopping ingredients which I cannot see. Then, he places them inside a pan with butter and throws the spaghetti into the water in another one, the smell making my mouth water.

"Where did you learn how to cook?" I ask him curiously.

"My mother's a chef. She taught me everything she knows," he replies and I raise my eyebrow in surprise.