Touch the Nerve || Chapter 8. Wrennie Calls Sick

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You never actually get to proper crying. By the time you finally get on the bus, the tears are gone. Every bloody muscle in your body hurts, but you aren’t crying. You’re telling yourself you’ll get home, crawl under the duvet, and then you will think, and feel sorry for yourself, and analyze and analyze what just happened, and how your life turned into this pile of shite. You come back to the dorm, peel off your dress and bra, and in nothing but knickers you curl into a tight ball in your sheets.

The thoughts do not come though, and you don’t notice how you fall asleep. You wake up with your heart beating painfully and irregularly, and look at your phone. It’s 6.40. Shite! Phil!

You agonize for a few minutes. He certainly won’t believe if you suddenly come up with some half arse excuse why you are not coming. Fuck, fuck! But you just can’t drag yourself out, and in all honesty, what are you going to say?.. You are so not ready for any heavy conversations. You chew on your lip, and send him a pitiful text that you have a sudden food poisoning. You are trying to phrase it so that it looks like you are bloody devastated that you can’t come. You offer him lunch tomorrow, hit Send, and hide under the covers again. No answer comes in the next fifteen minutes. Oh sod it…

Now that there’s nothing to distract you from your thoughts, your mind is reeling. What do you do now? On a deep existential level. Is the universe telling you that you are a dirty slag and need to reevaluate your life choices? Or is Dr. Dark and Sexy just a tosser and you should just forget about it?.. And why does it hurt so much?

You know why it hurts, Wren. Because of those few moments when you just crawled into his sleeping bag, and he seemed to envelop you into his grassy smell and his warmth. You closed your eyes, and you’ve never in your life felt better. Or when he momentarily lost control and bit your lip, his heavy body pressing you into the ground, and you felt powerful, brave, beautiful… Because no one has ever made you feel the way you felt in those few short moments…

You start crying, dry painful sobs shaking your body, and you bite into your pillow. You hate him, you hate yourself, you hate the universe… You feel like screaming, or breaking something, and preferably over his head. You have no bloody reason, but you feel like he lied to you, like he stole something from you, like… You do not know anything anymore…


Thea knocks at your door.

“Wren, are you sleeping?”

“No.” Your outburst is over, and you’re shaking, your teeth chattering.

“Phil’s here. He brought ginger drops, chicken soup, and electrolyte drinks.” Her voice is sing-song, she is obviously advertising him. “Do you want me to send him away?”

Like you know at this stage. You hum neutrally. Maybe if you don’t answer categorically, she will decide herself. And the universe with her.

The door closes, and you hear muffled voices. Then it opens again, and in a second Phil’s weight presses on the edge of your bed. You know it’s him because of the spicy smell of his cologne and because even through a duvet, the quilt and the covers you are wrapped into, you feel the warmth coming from his hip, pressed into your back.


“Hey…” You sound awful. At least he won’t think you are faking it.

You don’t turn and curl into an even tighter ball. Suddenly his hand is in your hair, gently stroking, and it’s a bliss. You suddenly remember how you got very sick when you were nine, and in your foster home it pretty much meant you were stuck in bed, alone, and people sometimes forgot to feed you. Or bring you water for that matter. You had a very high fever, and you were imagining how, if you had had a mother, she would be sitting near you right there and gently running her fingers through your hair. Exactly like Phil is doing right now.

Probably, because he has a mother, who sat with him when he was nine and sick. Because that is what you do when someone you love feels like shite. Because that what caring is. Except he doesn’t care for you. Because it is Philip Durinson, the dirtiest stud and playboy of the uni. Insensitive and inconsiderate manwhore.

“Can I get you anything, love?” His tone is gentle, and you just want to cry again. You shake your head as much as your position allows.

You are silent for a few minutes, he’s running his fingers through your hair, you’re breathing through your tears. You are still shaking. He rubs your shoulder and then places his palm on it.

“Wren, did you take your temperature? You are shivering.” His palm touches on your forehead, and your whole body jerks. “You are not hot,” he sounds worried, but then again, it’s still Phil. “In temperature sense obviously.” He waits for you to laugh at his joke, but you’re too busy clenching your teeth.

Suddenly you hear two thuds of shoes falling on the floor, and he slides on the bed behind you. He wraps his arm around you, and you are enveloped in his heat.

He’s warm, his heart beating steadily, he buries his nose in your hair. Minutes pass, and you relax into him, shaking dies down, you even shuffle a bit to get a bit more comfortable. He pushes his elbow, and you lift your head. Your cheek lies on his arm, and he pulls you even closer. Your lids are getting heavier, and you drift away.


You wake up from your alarm blaring on the bedside table, and you leap towards it, consequently stretching across Phil. He wakes up, and you two are staring at each other. He has a naked girl lying across his chest, you are pressing your pelvis into his sizable boner.

Oh poop.

He lifts a brow and smirks. It takes you a second but then your understand his smugness. Cocky bastard! Literally. You guess the size runs in the family. Bloody hell!.. He’s almost ten inches shorter than his uncle. Wait, not shorter, less tall. Because there is absolutely nothing short about him. And judging by the bulge under your lower stomach, the width upholds.

Sod it, Wren, what are you going to do now? The phone’s in your hand, if you get up you will flash him. If you start sliding backwards, you will literally hump him. He is still, one arm under his head, another actually under your knee. Your skin starts heating up in his palm. If he moves at least one muscle in his glorious body, that will pretty much be heavy petting. He holds your gaze and isn’t moving. Bloody impasse.

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