Where Do Broken Hearts Go?

43. That's The Law

I have no shame walking up to Marcel's house with an overnight bag. I have no shame stepping to his door in my pajamas and fuzzy slippers. I have no shame at all.

I glance at the mailbox knowing the key is there, but still, I ring the doorbell. I don't want to abuse the privilege.

When Marcel opens the door, he gives me a jumbled mug that confuses me. Am I not supposed to be here? I know I'm tired but... What day is it? "I thought you had the key?" He looks over to the mailbox, then me, and my bag.

"I returned it this morning. I don't need to use it every time I come over." I say. Marcel yanks his lips across his face and shrugs a shoulder at the setting, summer sun. "Let's not overdo it."

"You're staying the night?"

I sigh at the sight of his smirk, knowing he wants to play, but I'm too tired. He's back. 

"It's 8 PM, Marcel."

"You can go home after the movie."

Giving into his jokes, I wave an acceptingly dismissive hand into the air. "Then, I'll go home after the movie."

"You know I'm not going to make you go home."

"Nope." I pop my lips. "I'm going home after the movie. Move." I nod, making my way past him and into his house.

"Naaaah. I won't let you." I hear the door close behind me.

"Sounds like a hostage situation." I continue to pester.

Marcel shakes his head to reject the harsh title, "No." Tucking his hands into his back pockets, his eyes hover over my head as if to search for a more appropriate term. "Although," He tilts his head as a mischievous fleer drops to my more expecting, yet inquiring one. "Stockholm Syndrome is a thing."

"You think you're that much of a charmer, huh?" Ready to argue and shut down future claims, I sit a pink-polished hand on my fuzzy hip. "Go on."

"You're dead tired with half a mind, but I still lowered you to my place. But," He steps closer, picking up my hands to hold my wrists. As his fingers extend past them, six rings chill my joints enough to cause a shiver. Unable to fully contain the vibration, I wonder did he feels the most insignificant tug my hand gives his. "it's not a hostage situation... until you're tied up. And if I remember correctly," He drops me from his hands. "that's right up your alley."

When a grin so smug and indented develops on his face, I forget how provoking and contagious it is. I catch myself, not wanting to give the wrong impression – arousal.

"The lies. The lies!" My flimsy objection begins. Rubbing my nose with the back of my hand, I try concealing, but I know it's too late when I feel the tension thicken from the silence Marcel says speaks volumes. Breaking it, I ask, "How are you feeling?"

"Soooo much better. Thank you."

"Have you taken your medicine today? You should be on your third dose. It's 8."

"Yes, mum."

"Is it every 4 or 6 hours?" I ponder. Shoot, that may be why he's talking so much crap.

"Can you st–" he begins, but I rudely interrupt with a yawn that feels like it's going to swallow my face. Covering it, I come down from the deep breath with watery eyes. Whew! Humming, I rub the side of my face, estimating how long I'll be able to stay awake. "Awww, look at you. Hard day?"

"After taking care of you, work, and packing Ella? Yes."

"Well, I'm sure I've lost 20 pounds from vomiting, so buck up." He taps my arm. "A few lost hours of sleep aren't going to kill you."