"I don't think I can live with you if there are random men out to beat you up. I won't let you get hurt."Ī moment of silence passed, one in which I debated whether to trail my fingertips along her shoulder or not. "I know I'm protecting you." I leaned in closer to her, a gentle vanilla fragrance faint to sense. You're putting my life in danger too, you know that?" I have a right to know if I'm staying with you.
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She folded her arms across her chest, covering the skin with her hand. I trailed my knuckles down the back of her arm and watched her skin flare under my touch. "I can't," I said, a dull drag to my voice. Quite suddenly, she blurted, "Tell me who that man was. "Well make a plan." Her head whipped toward the kitchen door, her thoughts running wild again. She turned her gaze to me, a scowl overcoming her features. "It's hard," I teased, a smile coming to my lips. "Harry," she whined, "Stop damn well staring at me." "I'm trying to decide which angle would be best," I said, gazing along the shadow of her cheekbones and jaw. She soon focused her eyes elsewhere, as she often did recently, and I found my eyes wondering aimlessly toward her pale lips. Indiana had pulled me aside to get a drink with her. Music could be heard in the distance, where our friends were dancing outside and in the living room. I blinked at the sound of Indiana's quiet whisper, jumping into the space my body occupied. There's a firm difference between the two-one is something of innocence and helpless admiration, blind wonder the other is a slay of one's mind to such a degree that it's mistaken for some kind of adoration-and I see myself at either points of this mental sickness. So blurred in fact that I hardly know where I stand. The line between infatuation and fixation, I've begun to realise, is a blurred one. ( also the most realistic depiction of Indiana in my head)