The Criminal

Ch. 6: Who hurt you?

I rest my forehead against my desk as a way of hiding my face and attempt to deep breathe through my panic attack. It's been exactly sixteen minutes since I ate breakfast, and my tongue is tingling. Tears sting each cheek as my mind lists off all the possible bad things that could happen to me. Breathing is no longer a luxury and has altered to the point of almost hyperventilation. Despite my best efforts, my vision blurs, and the words, 'I'm going to die' rattle around in my brain like a hoard of buzzing bees.

"Nicole?"

FUCK!

"Hunter is here to see you."

"Okay."

"Shall I send him in?"

Hayley is oblivious to my situation, clearly mistaking my excruciating panic attack as a cheeky lunch-time nap.

"Sure."

She closes the door and I quickly wipe under my eyes, pulling myself together. I stretch my tongue to test how it feels and am met with more tingling. Pushing through the fear, I focus on my notebook and force myself to stand, needing the change in posture to distract my mind. Footsteps emerge and I know without looking they belong to Hunter. They're heavy and controlled, the sign of a true stride.

"Nicole?"

I smile.

"What's wrong?"

The fact he sees straight through my attempts to hide my emotions unnerves me.

"Nothing."

I straighten my spine and advance forward, stopped in my tracks by his huge body towering over me. I can tell Hunter had plans to saunter in here and continue our usual insults. It seems to be the only way in which we can properly communicate. My crying has made him change tactics and I don't know how to handle it. I don't know how to accept Hunter's genuine concern and kindness. Perhaps it should send me into a further frenzy of panic, but it doesn't. Instead, it offers safety.

"Who hurt you?" he asks, tilting my chin back.

"No one."

"Nicole."

His eyes observe while his fingers explore.

"Is it that dickhead from Saturday night?"

I gaze into his ocean blues and succumb to my peace. His fingers rest against both my cheeks, holding me with such tenderness. Such concern. He chews his bottom lip, weighing up his options. I suspect he's spent the last five years of his life solving issues with his fists. Now—helpless to the situation—he has no idea what to do.

"No one has hurt me, Hunter," I assure. "I'm okay."

He's wearing a grey hoodie, the colour bringing forth the storm brewing in his gaze.

"Are you sure? Because I can kick his ass."

I laugh, momentarily dropping my forehead to his chest.

"I'm serious."

"I'm not crying over a man, Hunter."

He smirks, lifting my chin. "Good."

His touch refuses to drop and I'm left with his huge arms encasing my body. I switch my attention as to not get lost in his eyes and in doing so, spot something out of character. "Why is there a plant in my office?"

He steps back, fetching said plant.

"It's yours."

I accept the leafy structure.