𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑 ⟡﹒

chapter thirteen: odd look

𝐘/𝐍

‧₊˚

CROSS LEGGED, back arched, pupils dilated—your best-friend Hitch is sat in front of you on your living room carpet. On the sofa beside her, the boy in black. His usual disinterested expression is replaced by the rage—fuelled motion he uses to bounce his knee repeatedly.

"We could always just call the cops, right?" Hitch says, voice soft and gentle as her weary eyes never falter to leave your face.

After explaining the events that took place in The damned Library, her worry for you was very much understandable. Though, it was not an excuse for her and fricking Connie—to take the roll of over-bearing mother hens.

"With what proof?" You ask hopelessly, shutting your eyelids to avoid the pitiful looks that they were practically spitting at you. You would rather clap poop in your hands than have anyone, let alone Connie feel sorry for you.

Connie places a solitary hand in his left jean pocket,"He put his fucking hands on you." The boy says, tenderness laced in his tone as his silver eyes bore onto you, though the twitched muscle in his jaw was enough to tell you that he was not in fact feeling very calm about the situation at hand. "The proof is all over your body."

You heave a sigh, mouth setting in a hard line. He had a point. A point that was indeed terribly hard to miss. After the incident, the only colours you could even begin to fathom were violet, blue, green and red—everywhere was bruised.

You looked disgusting, and felt like it too.

"But what if no one believes me?! I'll just look like some salty bitch who can't handle a rejection." You argue exasperatedly, voice slipping as you utter the last few words. You'd experienced enough embarrassment to fill an entire lifetime. But even the word embarrassment was in truth an understatement to describe how you were genuinely feeling.

With your reddened fingers, you tug on the drawstring of your purple hoodie and shield your face from the two in front of you. If it wasn't for them, you would've already been up, and out of Paradis the moment Jean had mentioned Porco's name.

Jean was a mystery—a mystery that you weren't willing to solve.

"Oh, Y/n—" Hitch gently began, her lower lip trembling. But before she could fully activate what you called serious Hitch, a deafening ringing sound echoes throughout your living room—cutting her off.

You mutter a quiet thank you to no one in particular.

"It's mine," Connie admits unknowingly, nose scrunching as he pulls out a phone from his left jean pocket. Without thinking, he swipes right on his lock screen and answers the phone call.

"Hello?" he says, keeping his husky voice drastically low as he reads the contact name in a keen scrutiny. He tilts the phone towards you and Hitch and mouths,

"It's Sasha."

That's weird.

You furrow an eyebrow and consider the moment when him and her were on speaking terms? Though it wasn't like you cared or anything, it was just a simple thought.