https://youtu.be/laqstNVR8Lw

Alex

To knock or not to knock, that is the--worst idea in the history of bad ideas.

Okay, Alex.

This is just a...friendly check up.

Friends check in on friends, right?

This feels oddly familiar circa a year ago, San Diego-

-whatever.

He's probably fine, and when he opens the door he'll just smile that stupidly gorgeous smile, and assure you that everything is okay.

He won't know that you've been secretly stalking his poetry, or obsessively worrying about him, or replaying the way you kissed him in your roommates car a million times over.

Will he?

Can guys sense that stuff?

Now that I think about it, Elias picks up on my anxiety like a bloodhound.

Crap.

Okay.

Just act normal.

Here goes.

I swallow the beginnings of a panic attack, lift my hand to Elias's door for the fifteenth time, and...

...freeze.

Again.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I've talked to this man countless times before and had zero problems.

Zero. Zip. Zilch.

But today, I'm acting like a squirrel on speed for reasons I neither accept or understand.

Like, since when am I nervous around Elias?

Well, okay, okay, maybe that's a stupid question, but since when am I unable to do basic human gestures in front of his door?!

Knocking is not a difficult thing to do. Fact.

See below for proof.

Life Manual Anecdote Number 1: In order to greet someone at their place of residence, making your presence known is key to establishing a connection.

To easily get a friend's attention, try the following:

Step one: Make a fist.

Step two: Bend wrist.

And presto, knocking accomplished...

...assuming you're "normal".

"Normal" people don't struggle with everyday tasks and are generally able to maintain mostly healthy social and romantic relationships.

They can show up to parties on the fly and somehow magically fit in, talk to their friends without coming off as closeted weirdos, and happily maintain contact with their ex's.

Clearly, I am not and have never been one of these people.

I make people uncomfortable at parties, I have no friends (aside from Indigo, but she's so open minded and hippie cool that she'd probably make friends with a wombat), and my relationship with Elias is--soul-crushingly awkward.

Especially, right now.

So what's the best solution to a potentially awkward situation?

Avoidance!

I let out a deep and cleansing yoga breath, step away from Elias's door, and run right into a man wall.

"Hey, Stranger. You lost?"

Elias's low and unusually raspy voice slips out from behind me and sets my heart rate off the Richter scale.

Now, as I've said before, if I were a normal person I'd turn around, whip my lopsided ponytail over my shoulder, and play off my restraining order-worthy behavior like it's no big deal.

Maybe I'd even shoot the breeze with him and pretend that my relief at seeing him has nothing to do with the fact that twenty-four hours ago, I thought his dead body was on its way to blackmarket organ harvesters.

Normal Jersey would be socially suave.

But I am not her.

I'm someone who's legs have spontaneously decided to turn into Jello in his presence. I glance down at my thighs (which are visibly trembling by the way), and curse myself for not wearing something that would've hid them better.

Come the weekend, most girls on campus wear cute clothes whenever they walk around the dorms. UCLA style goes from sweat pants, leggings, and Soffee shorts to flowery Bohemian dresses and classy Brandy Melville skirts.

I, however, decided to check on Elias in my ugly pajamas. We're talking my Dad's gargantuan, unisex, "Kiss Me I'm An Accountant" t-shirt that I never intended to be seen in, coupled with my shrunken 9th grade softball shorts. And when I say shrunken, I mean that they're practically booty shorts thanks to my shitty dryer.

Now, it wasn't my choice to dress this way. Saturday is laundry day, which means until the first load is finished, I typically dress like I was beaten with a tacky stick.

But there's no running or avoiding been seen now. Elias is standing close enough to drown my whole body in the heat radiating off his skin. His warmth sets off a chain reaction in the same part of my chest that aches and squeezes whenever I read his writing. But poetry and heart palpitations don't matter right now. Being calm, cool, and questionably collected does.

I force myself to turn around and slap on the most self-assured smile I can muster.

"Oh, hello there, Friend--

Who even says that? Barney?!

--I was just popping by to see if you--"

All the words in my mouth dry up at the sight of his face.

Elias King---the usually well-groomed, sleek, portrait of a magazine cover, is paler than paper. Okay, maybe not that pale, but relatively ghastly considering his usual sun-kissed complexion.

He smiles at me, eyes tired and sunken in, but still kind. Still as sincere as they were seconds before he kissed me three weeks ago. Still breathtaking.

Breathtaking? Get yourself together, Alex. He's your friend not --whatever it is your hormones want him to be. Focus. Smile. And be normal.

"To see if I was...?"

Alive. Not missing any organs. You know, the usual.

"To see if you were okay...and here you are, looking--"

"Like shit?" He says with a lazy smile.

I do my best to hide my own, but it creeps its way onto my lips anyway. I wish he wasn't right about his appearance, but I've never seen him look this bad. His hair's peaking out from the sides of his black Vans hoodie, the same one I wore three weeks ago, and bordering on being as surfer shaggy as Tanner's. For the first time, I genuinely see the resemblance between the two of them, especially with Elias's brand new five o'clock shadow.

His face is more youthful than his brother's. Kinder. Tanner's is more chiseled in the places where Elias is boyish, but that's what I like about him. I like all the little clues that give away just how much of a younger spirit he is. How much wilder he is.

But today he's tired. His breaths are labored and hollow, like the whole act of breathing is a chore. My eyes skim across his face and linger on the slight sheen glazing his temples and forehead.

Maybe he was out running. His outfit could certainly pass for a jogger's. Loose fitting light grey shorts, black Nike's, and the hint of a crumpled white shirt sticking out from the bottom of his sweatshirt.

How he's able to rock I-just-found-this-outfit-on-the-floor-of-my-room-and-still-look-basically-flawless both confuses and frustrates me. I clear my throat and force myself to focus on something other than his appearance.

"I wouldn't say you look like shit, but let's face it, that's not possible for you--"

He smirks, right on cue. At least he looks less worn down when he's smirking.

"--but you do look tired."

Elias rubs a lazy arm across his eyes and shakes his head back and forth like a baby bird to startle himself awake. Mildly adorable.

"Me? Tired around you? Not possible. I've just been busy," he says.

Busy?

I don't like the word busy. When will guys understand that girls despise the word busy because it's vague and takes on multiple negative meanings in our minds?

Busy could equal any of the following:

-Over you

-Avoiding you

-Hiding something from you

-Dating someone else

-Sleeping with someone else

-Falling in love and/or writing romantic poetry for someone else

Not that I care....but case and point.

I lean back against his door frame and attempt to look casual even though my blood pressure is threatening to shoot my bodily fluids out of the top of my head.

"Busy doing what exactly?"

Cruising around town melting the panties off your book groupies? Charming the women of Los Angeles with that smile, and those dimples, and that effortless charisma?

"Thinking about you, actually. Wanna come in?" He says, his voice soft and genuine.

I nod at him like a bobble head while any cool or semi-flirty response I might have had disappears into thin air.

Elias reaches behind me and lightly squeezes the side of my waist before opening the door.

Ladies of the universe, if you ever just so happen to be cornered by a gorgeous, six-foot-two, Adonis who's smooth enough to make opening a door feel sexy, make sure your balance is on point.

Squared shoulders and two feet flat on the floor heed the best results for keeping yourself upright.

Do not lean back against a moving object with your feet crossed. Trying to strike a casual pose when you are not a casual person is pointless and dangerous.

The second Elias opens the door, instead of waltzing into his room like the coordinated person I wish I could be, I fall backwards.

I trip over myself and go teetering over like a human domino. I shut my eyes and anticipate the moment when my back and shoulders will collide with his floor, but they don't.

I land in his arms instead.

Even in his worn, semi-decrepit state Elias still has the energy to save me from myself.

He catches me, and for a couple seconds, we're so close I can smell just enough musk and sweat to know he obviously hasn't showered in a few days, and then I fall.

We both fall.

Elias's arms go from being steady to slack, and we topple down onto each other with a loud thud on the floor.

Note: When it comes to falling, two is not better than one.

Boys are heavy, especially after they've spent a year getting taller and growing more muscles. Elias's full body weight sinks down onto mine to the point where I can barely breathe. I shift my weight underneath his, but he's too big, and I'm too small to make much progress.

"Elias, you're crushing me!"

He doesn't budge. He doesn't laugh. He doesn't bust out one of his usual sexual innuendos.

He doesn't answer at all.

I sit up as best as I can and look down to find him stone cold unconscious. I slap the sides of his face and a low, pained groan escapes his lips.

"What happened?" He slurs, his eyes glazed over like Krispy Kreme's.

He does his best to lift himself up high enough for me to wriggle my way to freedom. Not that being underneath him is the worst thing in the world, but if I have to be trapped under Elias King, I'd like him to be conscious. Fact.

"Babe, you--"

"Wait, what did you just call me?"

Babe. Yes, I called you babe, and I have absolutely no idea why or what these past three weeks have done to me because I'm worried about you, and aroused by you, and if things keep going on like this, I'm going to have to commit myself to an asylum. Fact, fact, fact, fact, quadruple fact.

"Nothing," I say.

That's right, Alex, bat your eyelashes and play dumb until he buys it.

"I thought you called me babe, but I guess I'm hearing things. What the hell's wrong with me? I don't even know how we ended up on the floor."

"You fell, remember? You tried to catch me, and you blacked out."

Elias runs a hand through his hair and stares at me blankly looking about as lost and confused as an eight year old. Granted, he tends to get confused fairly often, but this is something different--as in sick different.

First, he shows up looking like he's contracted Cholera, and then he takes two steps into his room and passes out on top of me. I'm no doctor, but he could very well have come down with a moderately severe case of the man-flu.

Websters Imaginary Dictionary Entry #1:

Man flu: A common cold or mild version of the flu that's grossly exaggerated by the fact that the patient in question is male. Symptoms include; fever, body aches, runny nose, vomiting, malaise, and general helplessness.

Entry ended.

Guys tend to get the worst case of the man flu the first time they're away from home. If he has been sick, chances are he hasn't done anything to take care of himself. And here we are.

I sling my arm over his shoulders and help him sit up as straight as he can. He winces a little, and I silently panic over how fragile he seems. He's never like this. The Elias King I know is pure energy. Always moving at a million miles an hour. But today he's running on empty.

Every move we make together seems to hurt. I place my hand on the center of his back and help push him forward, but he begs me under his breath to slow down. To stop.

So I do.

The tension in his body eases a little as he leans against me for support. His head drops against my shoulder, and once he's comfortable, his eyes flutter shut.

"I missed you," he says after a long silence.

The words float out of his lips, into the air, and flutter around my head in dizzy circles. I stutter trying to find a way to answer while my frazzled brain and wild heart drown in his words.

"I...missed...I mean, I was--I'm worried about you. I've been worried about you everyday since you disappeared. And if you think you can just come back and collapse on me without explaining yourself, you--you--"

He weaves his clammy fingers between mine, and I squeeze them tight enough to silently say, "I've missed you too."

"I'm sorry. I was...at my mom's. I needed to...I needed to see her to talk about the asshole."

Elias lets out a ghost of a laugh that leads to a coughing fit that takes more out of him then I expect it to. I rub my hand up and down the length of his back and wait till he quiets down before I speak.

"How'd she take it? Is she okay?" I ask.

Elias nods and a couple beads of sweat slide down his temples. I gently place my hand against his forehead only to find that he's practically burning through his skin.

"She'll be okay. We needed the time together, but she seems...happier though. In general. It's weird...I'm so used to coming home to her crying that I kind felt like I was in the Thai-light Zone, you know?"

"It's Twilight Zone, but I'll let that one slide this time."

"Why? Is the world ending?" He asks.

I give him a light slap on the back for that one.

"No, because you're burning up. How long have you been like this, Elias? I could cook eggs on this forehead."

"I don't know. I started feeling shitty when I got back from NorCal. You'd think spending...two weeks away from the LA smog would be good for a person...but I guess not. I didn't show up to class last week 'cause Hayes said I should recover or whatever, but it's not going too well."

A low violent cough comes roaring through his chest, and I try to hold him through the worst of it. I feel how hard his body's working through the back of his sweat shirt. His lungs rise and fall in and out of rhythm to the point where it's starting to worry me.

"Let's get you into bed, okay? The floor's going to be covered in your germs if you sit here all day," I say.

Ugh, I sound like my mom.

"Can't we...just stay here? Walking sucks."

"So does sitting next to your dirty laundry. Up we go. I'll help you."

I grab Elias by the hands and try to lift him to his feet, but apparently Sick Elias is about as cooperative as a dead fish. It takes a good five minutes to convince him that lying in his bed is preferable to lying on the floor, and an additional five to actually get him to his feet.

He wobbles into the space behind me and slumps two heavy arms around my shoulders like we're pantomiming a failed piggy back. His hands flop back and forth in front of my face to the point where I can barely see two feet in front of me.

"Elias, is there a particular reason why you want to walk like this? It's easier if you stand next to me."

He folds his arms across my chest and pulls himself up behind me until we're flush against each other.

"Because I'm trying to appreciate those little short shorts you have on, and I can't do that if I'm next to you. Can you wear these all the time?"

I'm tempted to swat him away, but I don't. I struggle to keep walking forward with an full grown man latched onto my back instead.

"Wearing these was not my choice. It's laundry day, I have limited choices on laundry day," I say.

"Good. I like limited choices."

I don't even have to be looking at him to feel where his eyes go by the time he finishes that statement.

"Stop being creepy, and walk. Your fever is out of control, your room is a mess, and if you want me to take care of you--"

"You're gonna take care of me? Nice. I should get sick more often."

"Elias, I will leave you here to waste away if you don't quiet down. I'm going to need a little less talking and a little more cooperation if this is going to work! Capisce?"

"Capisce. Whatever you--"

Elias makes a low guttural sound mid-sentence and his whole body freezes. His grip around me tightens, his mouth opens, and suddenly a flood of lukewarm liquid spills down the front of my shirt.

"Shit, Jersey. I'm so sorry. I--I--didn't mean to--"

His stomach groans again, and I point him to the bathroom before I'm covered in the rest of his dinner's leftovers.

"You. Toilet. Now."

Elias stumbles off to the bathroom while I slowly wriggle out of my dad's t-shirt. There's vomit all over everything. Speckled on my skin, my hair, my shoes, soaked into my bra. I try my best to keep myself from vomiting because of the smell--burritos and orange juice.

What the hell was he thinking?

If anyone ate burritos with orange juice, they'd blow chunks too. I push the thought of his food choices out of my mind, stop breathing through my nose, and jog over to the bathroom to throw my shirt in the sink.

I turn the corner and find Elias partially covered in puke and still dry heaving into the toilet.

I blink and the image of me in this exact same position flashes across my memory.

Sometimes, I think the universe intentionally connects people. That we're born with lines tied to someone out there we're eventually meant to find, and when you find them, you're supposed to keep them.

But I don't know why Elias chooses to keep me around at all.

He should've kicked me out of his apartment the morning after Social Night. I was embarrassed, mean, and resentful, but he stayed with me. He took my abuse, my frustration, my bitterness. And he still took care of me.

Back in high school, one of my favorite books by Stephen Chbosky said that "We accept the love we think we deserve."

But when it comes to me and Elias, my biggest mistake is accepting love that I don't deserve.

He just doesn't know it yet.

Elias sinks back against the bathroom wall once the dry heaving stops. He pulls his knees up into his chest while shivers rack through his body. I grab a towel off the rack to wipe the sweat off his face and settle down by his side. He looks over at me , eyes swimming in their sockets, and forces a smile despite himself.

"Your outfits...just keep getting better and better, Jersey. I like where this is going."

I dab the towel along his forehead and shush him quiet.

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, the only place you're going is the shower. Take this off."

"But I'm cold."

"I know. But would you rather sit here and freeze in your own vomit, or clean up and warm up in the shower?"

It takes a fair amount of effort, but Elias manages to plaster on a pout in protest.

"I wanna...shower...but only if you come with me."

His eyes unsubtly drop down to my lips and slip along the grove of my neck, and eventually find their way to my half-covered chest. My face heats up the longer he stares, but the longer he stares, the less I want him to stop.

He watches me the way he touches me, slowly, deliberately, every glance intentional and intimate.

We've been here before. Sitting face to face, breathing tension into our shared silence, wondering who will make the first move. The first mistake.

Elias lifts his hand to my shoulder and gingerly tugs at the strap of my bra until it slips down my shoulder.

"Up," I ask, my voice barely there.

He takes the tiny black band in his hand again and moves it back into place, but I stop him short.

"I meant stand up. You can leave that where you left it."

He slips into a satisfied smile and reaches out for me to help him up. He's on his feet in seconds this time, shoulders squared, body more poised and relaxed than before. I glance down at his crumpled white tee and the sight of him in it steals the air out of my lungs.

The fabric's drenched in sweat, see through, and sticking to the outline of a six-pack he's making no effort to flaunt.

It's subtle.

Sexy.

And for the first time since we've been together, I let my heart and my hands take control.

Elias lifts his arms as I pull him out of his shirt. Once he's free, he steps closer and stares me into a self-conscious silence. He takes my trembling hand and places it over the year-old tattoo on his chest.

"This is yours whenever you want it, you know that right?" He whispers.

My hand tenses and stills in his, but he holds it steady.

"I know, I'm just..."

"Scared?"

My throat swells, and I nod to hold back the tears threatening to speak for me.

"Don't be. I'm not going anywhere, Jersey--"

Elias's hand slips under the band of my other bra strap and tugs at it till it comes loose.

"--and neither are you. I don't vomit on just anybody, babe. You're special."

An unexpected laugh comes bubbling out of my chest and into the open. I throw my head back and let the light of the moment spill into my veins and fill every inch of my body. I laugh at how much I've missed his bizarre sense of humor, and I laugh at myself for the way I'm falling for it all over again.

I'm falling for him all over again.

And it happens while I'm standing in my bra and shorts in the middle of a puke-stained dorm bathroom.

There aren't any birds, or flowers, or magical fanfare. The world doesn't stop. The stars don't collide.

But something clicks.

And my heart changes.

Just like that.

Just for him.

And, it doesn't care if I'm ready for it to happen.

It doesn't ask for permission to beat out of my chest when Elias's hands graze around my back and unclasp my bra.

It doesn't pace itself when we pull each other out of the rest of our clothes and walk hand in hand into his shower.

It does what it wants, how it wants, and in that moment, it only wants him.

(To be continued...Steamy Part 2 will be posted on Tuesday Oct. 24!)

***

(Thank you guys so much for reading/listening to the audiobook! For those of you who listened, how'd you like the recording? kaelking12 and I literally cannot WAIT to share Part 2 of this chapter on Tuesday! If you liked the chapter feel free to vote, share, and tweet out your favorite quotes! I'll keep an eye out for you guys on Twitter and will star & retweet your posts!

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