My Guardian Angel(27)

“So you can get comfy on the couch.”

He smirked. “You think I’m staying down here, while you’re three floors up?”

I wondered where he was going with this.

He picked up the things I threw at him and walked up the stairs. He passed me and made his way up to my bedroom. I watched in horror, and then ran up the stairs after him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I bellowed.

“I'm going to sleep on the floor next to your bed. Now, go get cleaned up,” he ordered.

“Jason, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you don’t order me around,” I seethed.

He smirked and moved in a little too close. He didn’t say anything, all he did was stare at me. He then threw the blanket and pillow next to my bed.

“You’re my friend. I always take care of my friends,” he finally said through his teeth. I groaned as I relented and went to the bathroom to clean up.

Why was I feeling so nervous?

I took longer than usual in the bathroom, a small part of me wanting to stay there, not trusting myself with him sleeping next to me. I went through the various scenarios, which could happen.

One, I could jump him in his sleep and have mad passionate sex with him. Two, he could jump me in my sleep and I would let him. Three, I could fart in my sleep and humiliate myself.

“Are you okay?” Jason asked, as he softly knocked on my door.

“Yeah! Just finishing up.”

It was nice that he was upset for me, but I wasn’t too alarmed about it. Okay, fine! Yes, I was a bit scared with the phone calls, but the rest was sort of in the range of an obsessed fan.

I stepped out to my bedroom, to find Jason already on the floor, waiting for me to go to bed. He had taken off his shirt, leaving him bare-chested. His full sleeve tat was now more prevalent, as the small lamp I had on my nightstand lit my room. He had his tattooed arm over his eyes, almost like he didn’t want to see me. I hadn’t notice before, but he had two small nipple piercings. Oh, dear God! I had to brace myself on the bathroom doorframe. After I composed myself, I slowly made my way to my bed and slid into the sheets.

“Night, Kassia.” His low voice softly resonated in my room.

“Night, Jason.”





My New Home



Jason must have been tired. The boy went straight to sleep and didn’t move all night. I know this because I stayed up watching him. His defined features seemed so perfect and soft in the light of the night. I tiptoed out of the room, letting him sleep more. I don’t know what it was, but seeing him inspired me to write, so I did. I spent a good part of the early morning writing, while the later part, I was busy making him breakfast. Was he an egg type of guy? Or French toast? Waffle? Shit! I didn’t have a waffle iron. I gave up and made him a cheese omelet with French toast. I found some candles which I had laying around and waited.

I heard a scuffle upstairs and Jason began calling my name. I lit the candles and the moment I saw him in front of me I pressed play. The Beatles’ “Birthday” began to play. I started to dance around him with the plate full of food. He watched me, his face full of fear. He took the plate from my hand and placed it on the counter. He then yanked me into his arms. His whole body was trembling and shaking.

“What’s wrong? The song is too old. Should I have put on 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” instead?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. He didn’t respond.

I reached up with my hands and began caressing his back.

“Jason?”

He then slowly released me and took my face into his hands.

“I touched the bed, it was cold and I couldn’t find you in the bathroom. I panicked.”

I began caressing his face.

“I'm fine, I was writing and I figured I’d make you a birthday breakfast.” I shrugged and smiled.

“Just sit and eat.” I pulled him to the counter and put the plate in front of him. The candles were nearly melted down. “I guess I should make you new food,” I said as I took the plate off the counter. He grabbed my wrist and took the plate back.

“No, I want this one.” He took the candles off and began eating.

“Coffee? Tea? Juice?” I waited.

“Coffee,” he said in between bites.

“Should I put it in a sippy cup for you?” I teased him, but he didn’t laugh. “So, you’re how old exactly?” I asked, nervous about the answer.

“Twenty-six,” he murmured.

I nearly spat out my tea.

I knew he was younger, but seven years younger was a bit much. Well, technically a few days ago he was twenty-five, which made it eight years.

“Are you okay?” He put his fork down, looking at me.