Cuts and Bruises

Chapter Nineteen

Another short chapter, next chapter will be more intense !! :)
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I would say waking up in my own bed was the most jarring realization I had as my eyes opened, but I'd be wrong. That was the memory of the kiss-- or the lack of the kiss-- with Vincent. The realization made me groan into my pillow as I already began dreading the moment I walked downstairs to see him.

I lift my head and check the clock beside my bed to see it was still in the earlier hours of the morning in comparison to when I usually get out of bed at school. Eventually, I roll out of bed and tiptoe out of my room, past my mom's bedroom door, to see her sleeping peacefully, although still clad in her uniform.

I glanced at the closed door that held Vincent on the other side and felt my heart flip over itself before making a beeline downstairs. As I walk toward the kitchen, I pick up stray pieces of trash and things that aren't in their proper place, deciding before consciously making the decision that I would tidy up before my mom woke up.

As my coffee brews, I continue pick up around the kitchen, trying not to feel so embarrassed that Vincent was seeing my house in its current state. I was surprised he didn't go running for the hills when he stepped foot inside. His actual reaction flashes in my mind momentarily, reminding me of his cool demeanor.

I spent thirty minutes cleaning up before taking a break on the kitchen counter, letting my bare legs dangle off the edge, the tip of my socks barely scuffing the ground, as my hands wrap around the coffee mug to absorb any warmth its willing to offer.

"Morning," A gruff voice greets, and I switch my gaze to my lowering cup of coffee to see Vincent stroll in.

Shirtless. With bedhead. And sweats that hung dangerously low on his hips.

I avert my gaze immediately so that I don't stare. Or, stare any more than I initially had. "Good morning," I mumble as I stick my nose back in my mug.

From my peripheral vision, I watch him lift a hand to drag over his face. "Is there any more coffee?"

"In the pot," I answer quietly, and then want to cringe when I can barely decipher my own whisper.

It was like I wasn't sure how to function near him after what happened-- or didn't happen-- last night. I was dumbfounded for a moment as I realize that I somehow went from being able to openly scream at him or admit, to his face, how much I dislike him, to aggressively avoiding eye contact and practically whispering.

I'm grateful when he just continues to move behind me and exits my peripheral vision. I hear shuffling from behind me before the satisfying sound of coffee pouring, and a moment later, he appears in front of me with the pot in his hand.

"You want any more?" He offers, his light eyes practically glowing despite how tired he looked.

I slowly extend my cup toward him so he can fill it up, but I have to fixate my gaze on the coffee so I don't look at him, his stupid eyes, or his annoyingly perfect chiseled features. It was a good thing I was staring, because Vincent got dangerously close to the top before spilling over and pouring coffee on the ground.

I jerk the cup away and successfully spill hot coffee on my bare legs from the movement. The sizzling sensation makes me gasp and bite down hard on my tongue to keep myself from muttering every curse word I've ever heard.

"What the hell, Vincent?" I can't help but snap as I rub the burned part of my leg.

His wide eyes are innocent and concerned as he sets the pot down on the counter beside me. "I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention," He mumbles quickly, shaking his head. "Can I get you something?"