From Bully To Beloved

SERA

Ican’t believe I had dinner with Colton Ashton.

When Coltonasked me earlier if I had already eaten, everything came up again. He has obviously long forgotten the whole “lunch box thing,” or dismissed it as a silly boy prank. Not me.

Yet, I went out with him and enjoyed it. It’s been a long time since I’ve been out for fun.

Even when we return to the apartment, I’m still feeling relaxed. He looks so good with his hair pulled away from his face, shaved in the back, with a short man-bun on top, and his bright-green eyes smiling at me. More importantly, the man who went to the trouble of picking me up from work and then made me socialize is… personable. More than that, this man is not the troublemaker I remember. I enjoyed the verbal duel with him. I enjoyed hiscompany.

I don’t know why I sit on the couch with him, but before I know it, I’m cuddling up to him.

And asking stupid questions.

He thinks I’mbeautiful?

It doesn’t matter, because I have never seen eyes like his. Usually, people have hazel eyes or blue-green. His are like moss or the green of a lush forest. I want to draw them, to spend time finding the right color from my collection of pastels. It feels great to splurge a little with a rent-free month and the tips I’m making, and not having to worry all the time because of the inheritance. Being this close, I’m struck by how handsome he is. Being this close makes me want to do something stupid as my mind replays images of that body.

Like, kiss him on those full lips.

Luckily, the doorbell rings, and I amsoglad that it does, because it interrupts any thoughts of us being anything other than roommates.

Because that’s all we are: roommates who can’t kiss, ever.

Then of course, my roommate won rock, paper, scissors-and I won the couch. Speaking of… Mrs. Bianca’s cream-colored couch with its gold embroidery and golden feet is going to be in my nightmares forever.

SERA

TWENTY-FIVE DAYS LEFT

Living with him isthe worst.Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

It’s only been a couple of days since Colton and I established a ceasefire. Which means all the annoyance I’m feeling is for the present version of him. I can’t stand being roommates with the man, and honestly, he’s driving menuts.

I tell myself that I’ve buried the hatchet from the past-at least a reasonable part of it, but there’s a thousand new reasons why he’s driving me insane.

For one, he’s an absolute neat freak. If I put something down, nine out of ten times he’ll move it. After years of living on my own, I’m used to finding things exactly where I leave them. Here, who the hell knows? I can’t even set a plate on the counter without him telling me to put it in the dishwasher or rinse it off. I’ll take a shower and step out of the bathroom to get something, and when I return, my clothes have already been thrown in the washing machine.

I’m not untidy, but my place doesn’t have to be as clean as a hound’s tooth all the time. I work on my feet all day, and the last thing I care about is coming home to clean. I just want to shuck off my bra, prop my feet up, and lose myself in a few hours of TV or sketching. And if that bra happens to fall on the floor, then so be it. I’ll get it eventually.

Second, every time I walk through the door, I trip over his stupid biker or work boots. Seriously. Every. Single. Time. And his feet are way bigger than mine, so it’s not like I stumble slightly. They full-on trip me to the point where I have to grab the wall to stop myself from falling. I’m assuming he steps out of them as soon as he comes home-since he’s usually home before me-and just goes on his merry way. For such a neat freak, I don’t get how he can leave his boots right there in front of the door.

“They don’t go there,” I snap at him when I trip over them for the fifth or sixth time. “It takes literally two seconds to move them to the right of the entryway.”

“I got distracted.”

“By what?!”

“You really want to get into this?”

“You bet your ass Ido.”

“Fine, we’ll do this,” he snaps back. “Speaking of not doing something right, stop pressing the toothpaste in the middle,” he says. “Who does that? Press it from the back.”

“What does it matter?” I huff in annoyance. “As long as toothpaste is coming out, it should be fine.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not. And put it back in the right spot.”

“Oh, my God! You’re such a control freak! First, you complain that I don’t press the toothpaste correctly, and now you say I don’t put it in the right spot? I’m sorry I used it. There, happy?”

“Geez, woman, I didn’t ask you to get down on your knees and swallow, dammit, just to stop pressing the fucking toothpaste in the middle and then put it back in the right spot. Why is it so hard? You asked me not to touch your stuff, so don’t put the toothpaste withyourstuff. I can’t find it if it’s buried between your makeup.”

“Well, you stop rearranging the pillows on the couch!” I fling my hands out in frustration.

“Well, then don’t pile them up all in one spot.”