"I think you can stop pulling me now, before we have an impromptu amputation of my right arm, right here and now," I state.

So, we've been running. Maybe I won't go to the gym today.

Like you were ever going to go.

Finally, we stop, and Ethan releases me from his death grip. It takes an absurd amount of control for me to not double over panting from complete exhaustion. I've been near sprinting to keep up with Ethan's pace for the past three minutes and my body is not amused.

I sigh as I inspect my forearm with distaste and am surprised to find it isn't bruised. You would think the guy was scared I'd disappear into thin air (which I would) if he let go. Ethan inspects me, scanning my face while I stand there with a bored expression plastered on my face, "Are you okay?"

I look up into his eyes and deadpan, "Dandy."

You are such a bitch.

He blinks, "Okay, I deserved that. But seriously, why were those guys chasing you?"

I shrug, "Probably, most definitely because of some petty and irrelevant reason."

He then frowns down at me, "How are you so... Okay with everything?"

I begin wondering too, how am I not exhibiting any symptoms of emotional distress after almost being beaten down six feet under? Maybe it's my highly sociopathic tendencies. Maybe it's because this is nothing new.

I shrug again.

He looks at me once again, before muttering something that sounds like, "Maybe she's just shocked."

Sure, honey.

I stand there silently, my mind wandering to find little boys in big bodies with bad tempers. I shake my head, I should be thanking my lucky stars I got a solid twenty-four hours of peace.

The calm before a shit storm, remember?

"I'm taking you to my house, let's go."

I blink, snapping back to reality, and strain my neck upwards to look at him with distrust written all over my face, "What? No."

He cocks his head at me, "Don't worry, I don't bite. All I want to do is check your cuts and bruises and make sure you're alright. Unless you have someone to do that for you at home?"

Shame, I like people that bite.

Ignoring my nasty inner conscience, I sigh; that's a touchy subject to address. I guess the only person I really have at home is myself.

He nods, "I thought so, follow me."

I frown, can you tell no one particularly cares about my whereabouts, unless they have something to gain from me? That's a disappointing thought.

Ethan grabs my hand again and pulls me along. I shrug him off, but to my own surprise, I don't start walking the other way in defiance. I follow suit. I feel like I've become increasingly complacent, and while it irritates me, I don't know what else to do. I don't even have ice at home to use, or any money to go buy some at the gas station. Painkillers are a next level issue.

Managed to find yourself some ice? Level up! Now try get yourself some numbing drugs that aren't illegal.

And even then, what's the worse he could do to me? He just saved me.

You need to trust people a little easier, Ashley. Not everyone is like Tony.

He leads me down a street or two and then some till we reach his house. He pulls out a key, unlocks it, and we enter. The warmth of the house compared to the cold outside was stark, almost asphyxiating. I take off my shoes, leaving the soaked things by the door and drop my near empty backpack by my shoes. I then follow Ethan into his living room.

My feet begin regaining some feeling in them, growing warmer from the wooden appearing tiles beneath me, as I look around.

For a house being inhabited by someone named Stone, it almost seems to emit a homely aura.

Everything it a mix of white, grey, and beige. The tiles being a derivative of beige, with a white rug splayed across it, the walls an arctic grey, with a couch, television, coffee table, and a relatively smaller dining table filling up the room. It almost looks like something out of a Pinterest room aesthetic, just not girly.

"Nice place you got here," I comment, and inwardly cringe.

Way to be stereotypical and awkward, Ashley.

He just grunts in response, before disappearing off to the kitchen to the right of the living room.

I take it upon myself to make myself comfortable on his sofa, ignoring all the ungodly things that would have taken place on it. I simply trust he's been using it less than his bed, because it's uncomfortable and all, and that he's at least cleaned up after himself.

I fidget with the white and beige pillows decorating the slate grey couch, fixing them up and then resume sitting in the middle of it, hands on my lap.

Oh god, loosen up a little bit, Ashley. You look like you're posing for a school picture.

"You want some water or coffee or something?" He asks, his head reappearing through the kitchen door.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I question, abandoning all semblance of diplomacy and getting straight to the point. The guy's playing house, this isn't normal. At the rate this is going, I feel like there's going to be a role reversal where I'm the bad girl and he's the good boy.

And what better way to go about it than put the guy that's been helping you out recently on the spot?

He looks back at me, "A thank you would've sufficed."

I stop, and facepalm myself mentally. Did I not thank him? I furrow my brows and look down at my hands, feeling it would be superficial to thank him now. Out of my peripherals I see him shake his head and disappear back into the kitchen.

You are terrible with people, it's humiliating.

I hear the thump of his footsteps approach me again after a couple of moments, but I remain completely still, unsure what to do. He squats down in front of me, holding an ice pack. After studying my face for a moment, he hands the pack to me and I accept it and stick it under my shirt, wincing as the cold makes contact with my stomach.

"Thanks," I mumble.

He grins and replies, "See? I'm not so bad after all, am I?"

I just stare at him, no he isn't that bad. He's not bad at all, if anything. It's ironic how one would assume the guy in front of me earned his 'bad boy' status for a reason, yet he isn't a bully. At least not to me.

Why do you forget he earned that status from the sex, drugs and alcohol?

But even then, those are still rumours, and it's not as if the rest of our school doesn't do the same.

And mamma Mia, he is hot as hell. It would be hard to resist that hot hunk of meat and his infamous meat.

I nearly fall over myself at that comment.

My silence must have been conceived as an answer as he then approaches me, and then comes even closer. He leans even further into my personal bubble, until our faces are super close.

Just move your face forward a few inches. Do it.

I remain as still as a rock, trying to interpret what he's getting at. Why the sudden closeness? I resist the urge to shift away from him, refusing to reveal that this situation is making me squirm.

I shift backwards, who knows how many germs he's got in (and on) him?

Rita always says I may as well be an OCD patient.

I can hear the smirk in his voice as he says, "Careful, Ashley. With the way you're staring at me, you never know when you'll actually fall for me."

Swoon, that voice is godly.

Ignore heart palpitations.

I could listen to him all day.

Ignore nervous sweat breaking out.

I've already fallen.

Ignore pesky inner conscience which has dramatically fainted.

And suddenly he's standing a suitable distance away from me grinning mischievously, like a little boy who successfully stole a cookie from the jar.

I blink, taking a second to realise what he just did. And then I throw the ice pack at him, "Asshole!"

He just laughs and catches the soggy pack with ease and tosses it back at me, "Please, you enjoyed the distraction."

I shake my head, mouth open in disbelief as I look down at my side. The grazes I didn't even know I had are all cleaned of blood and dirt, and I didn't even feel the sting of disinfectant. I look up at Ethan and he smirks victoriously and declares, "I would make such a good decoy, I don't even know why the MI6 hasn't hired me yet, these looks could have anyone distracted."

I roll my eyes, forcing down the small grin playing at my lips, "Don't get ahead of yourself."

He just smirks down at me, "too late for that, I'm already planning my future as the next James Bond. Too bad that would mean I would gave to like martinis then."

I let myself grin at that, and begin reciting the iconic lines simultaneously with Ethan, "A medium dry martini, lemon peel. Shaken, not stirred."

We conclude that with voices twice as loud as our originating ones and it takes a lot of effort to not fall into a fit of giggles at the geekiness of it all. To top all off, Ethan exclaims, "I swear, James Bond has my heart."

I look up at this beaming geek of a bad boy and my newly revived inner voice asks,

Then what the hell are you going to do with mine?