12. Get Blushing!

AMBER I sat on the floor, my back leaning against the bed, staring blankly at the tightly closed door. This room feels like my last stronghold, the only place where I feel safe after that night. But even here, images of the incident at the club continued to haunt me-his threatening glances, the rough grip on my wrists, and the sense of hopelessness that almost swallowed me alive. I bit my lip, trying to hold back the sobs that had erupted too many times since I'd returned home. But my body was too tired to fight back. The tears flowed again, slowly, silently. A soft knock on the door breaks the silence. "Amber," the voice called from outside. It was Vincent. His voice was calm, but there was a firm tone that couldn't be ignored. I didn't answer. I didn't have the energy to speak. "Amber, I know you're inside," he said again, a little louder this time. "Open the door." I remained silent. "I'm not leaving until you let me in," he continued. His tone changed, softer. "Please, Amber. I just want to know you're okay." Okay? I almost wanted to laugh at that word. But the laughter turned into a tightness in my chest. I took a deep breath, trying to ignore it. However, Vincent didn't give up. "I brought food," he said, as if he knew that I hadn't eaten anything since last night. "At least let me make sure you eat something." I bit my lip, staring at the door as if I could see him standing behind it. I knew Vincent-he wouldn't leave until he got what he wanted. Finally, in a barely audible voice, I said, "Just come in." The door opened slowly, revealing Vincent standing in the doorway with a tray in his hand. He stepped inside, closing the door carefully before kneeling in front of me. His gaze instantly locks onto mine, full of worry that he doesn't hide. "Amber," he called softly. "Look at me." I shook my head, bowing my head. "I don't want to talk, Vincent. I don't want anything." He doesn't push me. Instead, he placed the tray on the small table beside me, took a chair, and sat down across from me. "I know," he said. "But I can't leave you alone like this. Not after what happened." His words made me think back to that night, and I unconsciously started crying again. My crying was uncontrollable this time, sobbing until my shoulders shook. Vincent didn't say anything. He just moved his chair closer, sat beside me, and offered his shoulder to me. I resisted at first, but eventually I gave in, letting myself lean against him. "I can't stop thinking about it," I whispered between sobs. "What if-" "Shhh," Vincent cut in. He patted my shoulder gently. "It didn't happen, Amber. You're safe. I'm here." I closed my eyes, letting a sense of security slowly creep in. Vincent's steady voice, his solid presence-it was the only thing that made me feel a little better. "I brought soup," he said after a moment. "And bread. You should eat, even a little." "I'm not hungry," I muttered. Vincent snorted softly. "You may not be hungry now, but your body needs strength. Don't make me force you, Amber." I lifted my head, looking up at him with puffy eyes. "You wouldn't force someone who's just been traumatized to eat, would you?" She smiled slightly, and it was the first smile I'd seen from her since that night. "I'm just trying to get you back to being stubborn Amber. Now, eat." I didn't have the energy to argue, so I complied. Vincent took a bowl of soup from the tray, handed it to me, and made sure I ate it all. The whole time, he didn't say anything else, just sat there, keeping me company. I knew Vincent was watching me. Even without looking at him, I could feel his sharp but non-judgmental gaze, as if he was trying to read my mind without needing to ask. I force myself to eat the soup he brought, even though every mouthful feels like a burden. The hunger wasn't there, but I knew Vincent wouldn't stop looking at me until I finished it. "Feeling better?" he asked softly, his voice softer than usual. I just gave a small nod, placing the empty bowl on the tray. I avoided his eyes, choosing instead to stare at the cold floor of the room. Silence enveloped us. I thought he would speak again, or maybe leave after making sure I ate. But she remained silent. I raised my head slightly, stealing a glance at her. He was still sitting in his chair, leaning back, but his eyes kept watching me, like he was assessing something. "What's wrong?" I asked finally, unable to bear his focused gaze. Vincent didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved his chair closer and, without saying anything, his hand reached out to take something from the small table-a wooden comb that had been there for who knows how long. "Are you okay if I...?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper, but his hand was already up, holding the comb casually. I just stared at her, confused. "If what?" She pointed at my hair with her chin. "Your hair is a mess. Let me fix it." I spontaneously grabbed the ends of my hair, realizing how tangled it was after that horrible night at the club. But I was also too tired to refuse his offer. I gave a small, albeit slightly awkward nod, and sat quietly like a child waiting for a parent to comb my hair. Vincent moved closer, positioning himself behind me. I could feel his presence so close, but he kept his distance. The first touch of the comb through my hair is so gentle it almost makes me want to laugh. I never thought a man like Vincent could do something so carefully. "You haven't used your comb in a while, have you?" he asked suddenly, his tone slightly joking. I smiled a little, for the first time since that night. "Maybe. I even forgot I had a comb." He didn't answer, just continued combing my hair in a slow motion. I could feel every strand that had been tangled begin to tidy up again. After a while, he stopped, but didn't leave his place. "I'll tidy it up a bit," he said, his voice still soft. I turned my head towards her, but she pressed my shoulder gently, telling me to sit still. I don't know where he learned, but his hands so deftly parted and tucked my hair in a simple yet neat way. "You're being too considerate," I muttered, feeling a little strange about the situation. "No," he replied shortly. "I just don't like seeing you constantly like this." His words hit me deeper than I expected. I looked down, letting him continue his work. When he was done, he rubbed my shoulder lightly, as if signaling that everything was in order. I turned my body slightly, looking up at him. "Thank you," I said softly. Vincent just nodded, his expression flat but there was something in his eyes that felt warm. He stood up, returned the comb to its place, then said, "If you need anything, I'm outside." He left the room without saying more, but I could still feel his presence, soothing me in the silence he left behind. *** I felt better already. After a few days of shutting myself in my room, drowning in feelings of fear and anxiety, I could finally breathe a little easier. Although the events of that night were still seared into my mind, at least I was strong enough to get up, to open the door to my room and step outside. I reached for my tray on the small table, making sure nothing was scattered. Vincent's soup had warmed my stomach earlier, even though I knew I only ate it because he insisted. When I came out of the room, the house was quiet. The living room light was on softly, illuminating Vincent who was sitting on the sofa with his laptop open in front of him. He was wearing a black shirt, the long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the strong muscles of his arms. His hair was a bit messy, as if he had been working for a long time without a break, but somehow it made him look even more stunning. I stood in the doorway, frozen. There was something about the way he sat-with his back straight, chin slightly raised, and a serious expression on his face-that made him look so... masculine. A calm but authoritative aura emanated from him, as if he had complete control over everything, including the atmosphere in this room. I didn't even realize I was staring at him for too long until he lifted his head and our eyes met. "Amber," he called in a flat tone, but there was a small smile etched at the corner of his lips. "Why are you standing there like a statue?" Panicking, I immediately looked down, pretending to be busy with the tray in my hands. "I just... wanted to take this to the kitchen," I stammered, feeling my face heat up. He closed his laptop slowly, as if to make sure I had no reason to run away. "Oh, is that so? Or are you actually watching me?" I looked up, staring at him in shock. "What?" His smile widened, his gaze full of teasing. "You stood there for quite a while. I thought you were trying to admire something." "I wasn't watching you," I quickly retorted, trying to sound convincing, even though I knew my face must be red as a tomato by now. "Really?" he asked, getting up from the couch and walking over. His steps were casual, but his every movement felt intimidating. He stopped a few steps away from me, folding his arms across his chest. "Because from my perspective, you look like someone who's just been charmed." "I'm not mesmerized," I retorted in a small voice, too nervous to look at him directly. He laughed softly, the low sound echoing in the quiet room. "Then why is your face red, Amber?" I bit my lip, looking down even deeper. "Because I feel ashamed to be treated like this!" I tried to step towards the kitchen to avoid him, but Vincent quickly grabbed the tray in my hand, taking it away. "Let me carry it," he said as he walked past me. "You've had enough rest, but I don't want you to overexert yourself." I could only stand there, staring at her broad back as she stepped into the kitchen. Even from behind, she looked so perfect. I let out a long breath, feeling frustrated with myself. "And, Amber," he said suddenly, turning to face me after placing the tray on the kitchen table. "Next time, if you want to admire me, just do it more openly. I don't mind." I opened my mouth to reply, but no words came out. Vincent just smiled broadly before returning to the living room, leaving me still trying to process what had just happened. I covered my face with both hands, trying to ease the heat on my cheeks. That man really knows how to make me lost for words. But I couldn't deny, there was something about him-about the way he talked, moved, and looked at me-that kept making my heart beat faster.