Don't Look Down

ninteen: don't need you to fight my battles

A steady breeze gusts through my open bay window the next afternoon, keeping me cool as I vacuum. The satisfaction I gain with every sweep of the machine as it collects dirt, combined with the hypnotic beats of the song pounding from my iPod speaker, have me in a fantastic mood.

My booty pops to the tune, my arm surges the vacuum forward before pulling it back, my hips churn to the rhythm-I'm lost in the moment.

I shimmy to the kitchen, machine in hand. When the song swells toward its chorus, I twirl around and catch Seth watching me. His eyes are hooded-something dark and possessive streaming beneath thick lashes. His jaw is locked and the drastic rise and fall in his chest has electricity surging through my entire body.

My cheeks burn as I halt my dancing, shut off the vacuum, and bring my hands to my mouth in embarrassment.

His focus remains fixed on me, his mouth stretched in a straight, strained line. Then he blinks, composing himself with a wolfish grin. "Don't stop on my account." Taking two steps forward, he sits on the couch, his elbows resting along the back. "Please. Keep going."

I grind my bottom lip between my teeth. "Is it weird I forgot you lived here for a second?"

He tosses his head back in laughter and opens his mouth to reply when a knock sounds at the door. I kick the vacuum as an excuse, which he accepts with a nod. He reaches the door and cracks it open, but as soon as he does his body straightens as if a metal pipe just replaced his spine.

My eyes narrow at his rigid stance and although I can't see or hear who's on the other side of the door, I hear Seth's responses.

"What are you doing here?"

"No."

"What the hell are you thinking?"

"Not a fucking chance."

When my patience has reached its limit, I switch off the music. "Who is it?"

He turns around. "No one."

Excuse me?

Curiosity claws at my mind. I abandon the vacuum and approach the door. He's holding it nearly closed; only a sliver of space keeps it open. I haven't the slightest clue who's on the other side and now anxiety is crashing in.

I lift my hand to his shoulder. "Seth?"

He flinches at the contact before shutting the door and twisting around. He's shielding me from whoever is in the hallway and now I'm not only anxious, I'm worried.

"Who is it?" I repeat, ready for an honest answer.

He rakes a shaky hand through his hair. With a groan, he closes his eyes, but not quickly enough for me to miss the panic glaring from them. "My baggage."

His chest expands and contracts with deep breaths. His head starts shaking back and forth and he's basically sweating beads of anxiety. His eyes remain closed as he mutters, "Fuck me."