𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 | one shots

The clock ticks a nauseating rhythm, piercing the silence of my pitch-black room. I turn under the sheets for what seems like the hundredth time tonight. Both sides of my pillow are warm by now, and my thoughts run wild.

I sigh, giving my insomnia one small victory tonight and hopping out of bed. My feet hit the cold hardwood, and I shiver, wrapping my arms around my torso and walking to the door.

Creaking the door open and rounding the corner, I make my way down the long hall towards the kitchen. Momma always made me a steaming cup of chamomile when I couldn’t sleep. God, I miss her.

I flick on the lights and scream, jumping back and hitting the wall behind me.

A man is sitting cross-legged on the floor and hunching over a jar of—Nutella? I don’t even have Nutella. Blood slides down the side of his face, and I notice a large patch of blood drenching his curls. It drips off his chin, disappearing into the black hoodie covering his chest. A black dagger lay carelessly off to his left.

My heart races, and I’m speechless. Who the fuck is this? Why is he in my house? Why is he bleeding? I go to speak, but my throat catches in fear.

He finally looks up at me, pulling a spoon out of his mouth.

“I can explain,” he announces hurridly.

We continue staring at one another, and I press myself harder against the wall, unable to respond. The spoon dips back into the jar, and the man sighs, shaking his head gently and chuckling under his breath.

“No, I can’t,” he admits, licking the spoon clean once more.

I clear my throat, taking a deep breath and finding my voice. “Who the hell are you?!”

“She speaks. I’m Parker.” He crosses his free arm over his chest in a bowing motion.

“Why are you in my house? How did you get in here? Why are you bleeding?” I ramble.

“I needed a safe place and a spoon; your lock was unbelievably easy to pick; I underestimated someone.” He laughs again, “you should see the other guy.”

Parker’s eyes shoot down at my hands, the knuckles turning white as I grip the hem of my shirt furiously, my breathing still ragged.

“Whoa, hey, I’m not gonna hurt you, Melanie.”

I tense hearing my name slip off his tongue. How does he know my name? Fuck, fuck, fuck. Am I gonna die tonight? A lump forms in my throat, and my eyes prickle with tears.

“How do you know my name?”

An icy laugh escapes his lips, and he stands, setting the jar of Nutella on the counter and tossing the spoon into the sink. My heart slams against my ribcage as he starts walking closer, swaying slightly.

Think, Mel, think! Okay, he’s probably weaker from blood loss, so he’ll be easier to take down.

He’s only a couple feet away now.

If I can just get him down to the ground for a second, I can get past him and grab a knife to defend myself.

Suddenly he’s leaning over me, his sickly sweet breath ghosts dangerously across my face, and I pinch my eyes shut. He tilts his head down, bringing his face right up to my ear, his steady breathing making my stomach churn anxiously. I’m trembling, my hands press firmly against the wall as I attempt to distance myself from him as much as possible.

“Your bills are on the counter, love. Melanie Blake. Cute name.” He rasps, letting his lips brush my ear before pulling away and smirking, content with my panicky state. Delicate fingers trace the shell of my ear, tucking a few loose curls away from my face. His gentle touch contradicts his entire appearance, and I feel horrendously safe. At that realization, my throat tightens, and I notice a pit in my stomach.

For fuck’s sake, I need therapy.

Trailing his fingers down my cheek, Parker steps away from me and stumbles over to the freezer, yanking it open and rummaging through. I remain frozen against the opposite wall, attempting to process everything that’s happening. I just wanted a cup of tea; now someone is bleeding and eating fucking Nutella in my kitchen.

He mumbles under his breath, “do you seriously not have an ice pack? This is inhumane. I’ll be leaving a bad review on Yelp.” Slamming the freezer closed, Parker disappears around the corner before popping his head back and staring at me expectantly.

“Well, come on now. Someone has to patch me up. Unless, of course, you’d rather me bleed to death, leaving you with what looks like a murder on your hands.”

Blinking a couple times, I manage to take a hesitant step forward and follow him into the guest bathroom. He turns the light on and stares at his reflection.

“You know, I think I can pull off the whole ‘bleeding out’ look. What do you think?”

I ignore him, pulling out a clean washcloth and running it under hot water. Opening the bathroom closet, I grab what I need and kick the door closed. I set my supplies on the counter; hydrogen peroxide, a stack of gauze pads, and a roll of elastic bandages from when I got my wisdom teeth out.

Glancing up, I see Parker drawing smiley faces on the mirror with his blood, and I stifle a gag.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s disgusting! And you’re putting your dirty fingers all over—oh my god, please—just stop!” Ignoring the fact that this man could probably kill me at any moment, I grab his shoulders and push him back until he’s sitting on the counter.

“That was a little unnecessary.” He huffs and leans against the mirror, closing his eyes.

I seize the opportunity and dab his head with the washcloth, watching his eyes squeeze and his jaw tense.

“Fuck.” Parker seethes, gripping the edge of the counter between his legs. “Talk to me. I need a distraction just,” he groans, “tell me about yourself or something.”

I think for a second, “um, my favorite color is black.”

His eyes open, flickering down to his all-black outfit, then back up to meet my gaze.

“Interesting,” he smirks, and I press the cloth harder against the wound, smiling as he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“I like nighttime better than daytime, I’m scared of butterflies, and I don’t like steak.”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. There’s a lot to unpack here. Who the fuck is scared of butterflies?”

Blushing, I continue. “Rainy days are better than sunny ones, and sour candy is better than sweet.”

“Okay, those we can agree on, but butterflies? Really? They can’t even hurt you.”

“Some are poisonous,” I mutter, rinsing off the blood-stained cloth and grabbing the peroxide.

“Yeah, if you eat—” His entire body curls inward as I pour peroxide onto the cut.

“You—are one—sadistic—bitch.” He hisses, glaring at me with hooded eyes.

“Thank you.”

Brushing his hair out of the way, I place the gauze against his scalp and wrap the bandage around his head, securing it with pins.

I sigh, “you’re all set.” He grabs my face with both hands, kissing me hard on the forehead. I stand there in shock as he hops off the counter and waltzes out of the room.

“You’re a lifesaver!” He shouts from somewhere down the hall. “Let’s do this again sometime, darling.” The front door slams behind him, and I turn to look at my mirror. A singular, red handprint on the side of my face catches my eye, and I raise a tender hand, wiping the blood off my cheek. I notice the matching crimson smiley faces adorning my mirror, and a dry laugh slips from my mouth.

What the fuck?

Prompt: Person A suffers from insomnia. Upon failing to sleep for yet another night, they enter the kitchen at 2am to make themselves tea/hot milk. Person B is a complete stranger, bleeding from a head wound and dressed in all black, sitting on A's kitchen floor and eating Nutella from the jar. It isn't A's Nutella. A doesn't eat Nutella. It is, however, A's kitchen and A's teaspoon.

**This is not my prompt**