Andrew's eyes, black and beautiful, stared back at me with a pained expression written across them. He stood at the front porch in a simple black hoodie, hood on and hands shoved in the large pocket. The howling wind outside brought a shiver to my spine and I pulled Andrew's tall figure by the arm, leading him inside through the front door.

"Why didn't you text me," I ask him. "I could've opened the door for you instead of you knocking at my window with that rock."

He didn't say a word. Only under the light of the living room was I finally able to make out a clear picture of him. Bruises plastered all over his face and a swollen bottom lip looked straight at me. His nose had a smeared stain of blood right under. He looked bad. Terribly bad.

"What happened to you?" I whisper, stepping closer to get a better view.

His gaze slowly lifts to meet mine. They narrow at me once our eyes lock and he takes a step closer, inches away. "What's got you looking all pretty?" He breathes in, eyes flickering between mine as they sparkle under the light.

He looks down at me from above. His thick furrowed eyebrows enhanced his dazed look and I gulped in nervousness. My palms were getting sweatier and I hated the way I could feel them. I observed his face for a while, heart pounding in my chest while frozen on my feet. A shy blush crept up my face slowly. It's only when he brushes a strand of my hair behind my ear that I feel flutters in my stomach. He was looking at me with such a look in his eyes. While connecting our gazes, as he leaned in a little.

I swore I saw his stare flicker down to my lips for a split second. My eyes widen at that and my stomach flips. I urgently try to think of something to say to avoid facing my nervosity.

"S-Sit down," I order him softly, pulling his arm again to the couch.

However, when we reach the sofa he doesn't budge. I look up at him and narrow my eyes.

"Andrew, sit down," I repeat.

He looks at me for a moment and darts his eyes away. "I can't."

"Just sit."

He purses his lips while the scowl on his face grows deeper. Suddenly, he grabs the arm of the couch and squats down while grunting. I watch him closely as he sits down in pain, his body aching with every movement he makes. I regret my tone when I realize how badly he was injured. He was most definitely not just wounded on his face.

"Andrew, take your hoodie off," I tell him. "I want to see."

His eyes dart up to mine in an instant while a hint of pink tints his cheeks. "What do you want to see?" I see the corners of his lips quirk up very, very slightly.

I realize the double meaning of my words and stumble upon my sentence. "No, I don't want to see- I mean, I have to see if your body looks good," I shake my head.

Shit.

Can't I just say it right?

"Just take the darn thing off!" My voice cracks.

His eyes fill with amusement while he stares at my withdrawing hands. This was so embarrassing to endure.

Was he seriously entertained by this?

He examines my figure before reluctantly removing the clothing in question. "Fuck," he curses, unable to get his arm through.

I hurriedly make my way over to him and grab the cloth, pulling it over his head and his arm through the whole, wrapping my hand around his bicep to do so. His skin was soft but his arm was rigid. The feel of his muscle under my touch was making my face get hotter.

The piece of clothing finally off, I drop it to the ground and examine his torso. His side was bruised up and blue. Scratches marked his chest and a couple more black spots bruised his upper body. He looked like he'd been through hell.

"What... what happened, Andrew?" I ask in a whisper. "Who the hell did you fight?" My eyebrows furrow as I speak.

"No one important," he looks away from me, to the side.

"I'm calling the police," I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket in a panic.

He stops me from doing so by grabbing my wrist, determination filling his eyes. "No. Don't fucking call them."

I stare at him in disbelief and rip my arm out of his grasp.

He seemed pretty serious about not calling them so I didn't question it. I assumed if we called the police over they would start questioning him, which could lead to him getting in trouble.

But that's just a theory.

I shake my head, hands on my hips and I leave the room to make my way to the bathroom. As soon as I step inside, I look at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes weren't red anymore, but my lashes were glued to each other due to my evident crying. I internally thank Isabella for forcing me to wear waterproof mascara. My cheeks were pink and my makeup was very slightly smudged. I quickly fix up my face and grab the first-aid kit from the bathroom cabinet, along with a small damp towel.

Making my way back, my hair decides to act rebellious so I push it back. I stand in front of him and bend to reach his face. His body took all the couch's space as he sprawled on it, leaving me no place to sit. I mentally shrug and open up the box I brought with me, going through the material inside. Grabbing a bottle of rubbing alcohol, I pour a little bit on a piece of cotton and use my index finger, I tilt his chin up to get a better view of the scratches on his face. His breath hitches.

"This is gonna sting," I warn him, bringing it to his face and dabbing the small wounds on his cheek with it.

He sucks in a breath the moment it makes contact with his skin. I focus on the red trails, cleaning them up carefully. The more I dab, the more marks I notice.

What kind of trouble did he get into? It wasn't unusual for him to show up with a new bruise on his face but it's never come to the point where he looked half-beaten. And the audacity for him to show up here out of all places? After all the overthinking he put me through, I should be the last person for him to go to.

I scoff.

"Why are you here?" I ask with a frown on my face, applying more pressure on his cuts. On one hand, they weren't getting thoroughly cleaned, but on the other, I was pissed at him. Who wouldn't be?

His eyes drag up to mine slowly, trailing on my features along the way. I figured he detected my frustration with how I was rougher with his skin. When we lock eyes, I can already feel myself forgiving him.

I don't know why.

"You're the only person I could think of," he says lowly.

My arm freezes in the air as my heart melts. I stare at him with a pained expression. Why me?

"What about your mom? Im sure she's worried about you," I ask, continuing with what I was doing.

His eyes widen. "No, not my mom. I don't want to worry her."

"She's probably already worried. Imagine taking care of four children while your oldest is out there fighting like a gánster. You should be-"

His rough hand grabs my wrist, shutting me up. I connect my gaze to his and examine the way his face scowled fiercely. "Im not a gangster."

"I didn't say you're a gangster- Just that you're acting like one. I mean, who goes out at night and gets into random fights? Wouldn't you assume that they're robbing banks and beating innocent civilians? It's common... sense..." I trail off, regretting every word when I watch the way he stares at me.

I was regretting a lot of things today.

I clear my throat, getting back to what I was doing, and bring an ice pack up to his lip, hoping that it'd reduce the swelling of his Kim Kardashian-looking lips.

I snicker at my joke, gaining a curious glare from him.

Looking away, I huff at the thought of bandaging up the bruises on his waist. I didn't want to touch him. Especially not after that night at his house. I was so embarrassed after what happened. The way my fingers shamelessly grazed his body that day, disgusted me. I hated how soft, smooth, and nice his skin felt under my touch.

Yeah... I was lying to myself. I did want to do that.

Okay, now's not the time to be thinking about this.

My hands trailed on his body while I cleaned up his wounds and stuck bandages here and there. He'd shiver whenever my fingers lingered too long. I take a step closer to him, pulling out a roll of elastic bandages from the kit and wrapping it around his waist to compress the giant blue mark on his side. I had to place my hand on his stomach for support so that I could roll the bandage behind and in front of him. I guess it was pretty painful for him to endure because, as I did so, he grunted in discomfort. While I tightened it, I could feel his gaze on me, eyeing me skeptically as if I were some kind of alien.

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After, wrapping it, I tried to fix the edges of the tape for it to cover the whole of his bruise. My fingers grazed his skin and, as I did, I could feel his muscles tense under my touch.

The person he fought did him pretty badly, making sure to leave a mark on his body. Out of grudge? Probably. Hatred? I believe so. Either way, they definitely seemed to have it out for him.

My stomach drops.

Could it be...?

"Who did you fight?" I hesitate to ask again.

I hear a rough sigh leave his mouth. "I told you it's no one important-"

"Was it Ethan?" I question, getting silence as an answer.

"No, it's not Ethan," he scowls. "Why the fuck would I waste my time on that bastard?"

I know he's lying. Who else could he be fighting aside from him? Plus, I had just come back from a date with the guy in question. He could've been out there fighting with him after dropping me off at Laurie's house.

"Was it because of my date with him?" I try to get something out of him.

His eyes flicker to mine in a dash, widening as they do so. "You went on a date with him?" He raises his voice. A glint of surprise flashes in his eyes, along with something else.

Was it hurt? Disgust?

"Andrew, lower your voice. My family is sleeping-" I raise my hands to stop him.

"Why would you go on a date with that piece of shit? That's probably why you were crying before I showed up," he continues as he gets up from his spot in an instant. "Fuck," he curses under his breath, clenching at his side.

I rush to help him sit back down. As soon as he plops down on the couch, I take a seat next to him. The tension was strong, floating in the air, and I could feel his fury radiating off of him.

I regret ever saying a word about this.

"I didn't mean to go on a date with him. It's just... he asked me... And I can't say no, so..." I defended myself while wringing my hands in my lap, eyes darting to him every split-second.

"I couldn't care less if you went on dates," he frowns as I stare at his side profile. "Just not with him."

Frustration builds up inside me. "Why not?"

"Why would you want to go on a date with that asshole of a womanizer?" He shoots me a look I couldn't keep in contact with.

"That's not true, he's a nice guy. He's thoughtful and he doesn't push me away, unlike you," I spit back.

He doesn't reply to me, only glaring furiously.

Shit.

Another sentence I should've kept to myself.

I try to change the topic. "Is it really true what he told me, Andrew?"

"What? What did he tell you...?" He hurries, shifting in his position as he grunts to face me.

"Did you drop him after 7 whole years?" I wait, expecting an answer back. "Were you really the one who caused the problem?" His eyes flicker between mine before dropping down.

"Yes."

My heart drops in disappointment. My gaze lingers on his face, hoping to see a flash of a lie. To my demise, he seemed to be truthful about his actions.

I was hoping that what Ethan told me was a lie.

Why would Andrew do such a thing?

Was he going to do the same thing to me? He's practically been doing it anyway, so it would make sense.

No, I had to hear both sides. I couldn't just assume something without knowing the context behind it.

Maybe Ethan did something before that, maybe he was a different person back then.

"Why did you do it?" I ask him, looking back up.

Andrew stares back at me, eyes overshadowed with determination. "Because I'm a piece of shit," he says in more of a stating tone, catching me off guard.

I frown at his sentence. I breath in, readying myself to reply to him before he cuts me off.

"Are you going to leave me now?" He asks, leaning closer. "I am a horrible human being. You heard what Ethan said."

His face was just inches away from mine and my heart sped up. Nerves filled my insides as my eyes darted across his face. His dark hair fell gracefully on his face and I resisted the urge of pushing it back.

"You're not a piece of shit," I argue. "No matter what choice you make, you're not a piece of shit. You're kind, Andrew."

His pupils dilate slightly as I watch his face relax a bit. The scowl he held onto so tightly gave its place for a more neutral look.

He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but nothing comes out.

We sit in silence for a bit, listening to the wind outside. My head fills with impatience.

I wanted to know more.

I wanted to know what happened to him. How he turned out this way. Why he did the things he did.

But he wasn't going to let me in.

His leg bounced up and down while he sent a couple of stares my way. He seemed to be nervous about something, battling himself about it. I wanted to reach out my hand and calm him down, rub my palm on his back to soothe him. I didn't know how he felt about physical contact. We did hug that one time at the library, but it felt forced on his end, now that I think about it.

"I..." he hesitates, his voice cracking. His eyes dart to mine and he looks away in an instant. "I did that..." he breathes in, forcing his leg to cease with its anxious movements. "...Because he was going to leave me."

Suddenly, everything clicks together. He'd been doing the same thing to me, for the same exact reason.

"Why did you think he'd leave you?" I mumble empathetically, making sure to use the softest tone possible.

I examined his face, the way his eyes locked on the living room's coffee table. His gaze didn't budge. Andrew's hands fidgeted together along with his bouncing leg, who had returned to its continuous jumping. I could see it on his face, the intensity of whatever he was feeling.

Instinctively, I placed my palm on top of his hand, making his freeze. Whether he liked physical contact or not, it didn't matter with me. He's have to deal with it whether he liked it or not.

"I'm not going to leave you, Andrew," I assure him. "Don't push me away anymore."

His gaze transitioned from the placement of my hand, eyeing it as if it was some sort of magic, to my face. His onyx eyes have never looked so bright, and something was pulling me in. For a mere second, his eyes flickered over my lips and back to my face.

I couldn't help it. It broke my heart seeing him like this. His bruised up face and pained expression were too much to handle. Watching him so vulnerably different from his usual self made me somewhat glad that I was the one who got to see it.

"How was he?" He suddenly asks.

"What?"

He sighs, his frown growing deeper. "How was the date with him?"

I look down. "It was... fine."

He leans in, arms crossed. "Is he the one who made you cry?"

I gaze at him shortly, intimidated by his black eyes. "Not really."

"Then why were you crying?" His voice rumbles.

I hesitate on telling him the truth. What would he think? Is it even in my place for me to be telling him this?

"He just..." I freeze. "He wanted to kiss me."

His eyes widened in anger. "He forced you to kiss his ass?" His body twitched and he grabbed his side in ache.

I shook my hands in the air. "No, no," I say. "I'm the one who didn't want to kiss him. He told me not to kiss him if I didn't want to."

"So you didn't kiss?"

"No."

He sighs in relief. "Good."

I stare at him with a crooked grimace. That response was the least of my expectations.

"What do you mean good?" I question.

He furrows his forehead. "What, did you want to kiss him?" He leans in.

Oh.

I was hoping he meant "good" as in I don't want you to kiss him. I guess he meant it as "I'm glad you didn't do something you don't want to do".

"No, I didn't want to kiss him. I don't like him. He's not my type."

"So why were you crying if you didn't kiss him?" He questions, raising an eyebrow.

"Because I didn't want to," I admit. "I hurt his feelings. I wish I was just able to force myself." I reply, looking down.

He leans closer. "And why should you sacrifice yourself for the happiness of others?"

I look at him in silence, reflecting on his question.

He was right.

"I'm glad he's not your type. I don't want you to like him," he leans back into his seat, crossing his arms. He clears his throat, seeming a bit embarrassed. "What's your type anyway?"

You.

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know if he's your type of not?" He raises an eyebrow.

I clear my throat, worried that I might spill something unnecessary. "He doesn't make me feel... butterflies."

"How..." he clears his throat. "How do you make someone feel that? What even is it?" He asks.

I smirk, amused by his question. "It's that feeling when you're all warm inside, and you feel as if there's actual butterflies flying inside your stomach," I laugh.

Why was a big guy like him asking me that question? He had better things to worry about. The giant bruise on his side, for instance.

"What if I'm the one feeling it?" He grumbles.

I blink twice, taken aback. Suddenly, I puff out a laughter. "I couldn't imagine you liking someone," I snort. "Would cursing her be your sweet talk?"

He doesn't do anything but stare at me, which quickly kills my laughing. I clear my throat, a little overwhelmed by the glare. "Sorry. I didn't mean it in a bad way."

A look of curiosity sits across his face. Then, he shivers and I remember that he was shirtless. He was probably dying from the cold and here I was mocking him.

"Come with me," I urge him, getting up from my seat and helping him up.

He groans while doing so, clenching to his side. Huffing out a puff, he follows me until we reach the foot of the staircase.

I see hesitation cross his black eyes so I quickly take initiative and wrap his arm around my shoulder. "Lean on me," I tell him.

We begin moving up the stairs. "I can sleep on the couch," he argues.

I side eye him and roll my eyes. "I'm not letting you sleep on the couch, especially not like this."

We reach the top and he lets out a breath. "Well, do you have a guest room or something?"

I grimace in confusion. "No, why?"

"Then where are you bringing me?" He questions, eyebrows furrowing deeper.

"To my room, duh."

We enter my bedroom and I lead him to my bed, helping him sit down carefully. He winces and squeezes his eyes shut.

I sigh. "Why were you even fighting?"

He looks up at me through his lashes and darts his eyes away. "I fought with my sister," he admits.

My heart drops. "What?!" I almost yell out. "You beat up your sister?!" I whisper-shout.

His eyes widen. "No!" He denies my allegations. "I just got in an argument with her... so I left to let off some steam."

I squint my eyes at him and let out a sigh. "Did the person you beat up deserve it at least?"

"In some way..." he trails off before changing the subject. "Where am I sleeping?"

"Who ever said anything about sleeping? I'm going to throw you out my window and make you sleep outside."

He narrows his eyes and looks at me with a curious expression.

"I'm joking..." I breathe out. "You're supposed to laugh," I continue while he stays quiet. "Anyway, you're sleeping on my bed. I'll sleep on the floor."

He frowns. "No."

"Yes, you are. Just look at yourself," I gesture.

"You're not sleeping on the floor," he tells me.

I roll my eyes and shake my head. Bending down to reach the bottom of my bed, I pull out the rolling mattress from under it. "I'm sleeping on this, not literally on the floor."

He eyes me warily and nods slowly.

"I'll get you a change of clothes."

I make my way out of the room and sneak into my brother's. Heading for his drawers, I almost trip over something on the ground but rebalance myself. The drawer was filled with old t-shirts and I grabbed the first in that came to view along with a pair of pyjama pants.

I make my way back to my room and throw the clothes on his lap. "Put them on," I order him while closing the door.

Through the other side, I hear ruffling and winces until I remember my makeup in my face and leave to the bathroom.

A few minutes pass by and I go back to the intruder who came to bother me at 11 in the night. Nudging the door open, I slowly creak it open, scared that I might open it on him while he's changing.

I didn't have the energy to knock and wait.

"You done?" I ask, popping my head out.

He was lying along the bed on his side, where the bruise didn't reach. He looked good, with his bruises and all. I know I shouldn't be thinking this but I couldn't help it.

I flick the light off and lay on the mattress on the ground. Forgetting his restricted mobility, I reach for the blanket on the bed and throw it over his body, tucking it under his heavy body. His eyes followed my movements and when I gazed back at him, I got overwhelmed with the look he was giving me. His black hair and piercing eyes made my heart flutter.

Man, was he beautiful.

I snap out of it and make myself comfortable on my side. "Goodnight," I tell him.

He responds with a groan and shuffles under his covers.

The darkness of the room allowed my thoughts to begin to flow. So many questions filled my head. Was this a regular occurrence? Did he always show up at his house beaten up? Did his mother know about this? She probably did. The usual scratches on his face wouldn't go unnoticed, especially not by his mom.

What was wrong with him?

I sigh and close my eyes shut, hoping to keep my thoughts out of my head.