14 | damsel in free-fall-3

It was that simple. When I didn't say anything, Miles began to fidget, biting his lip nervously. "D-did I say something wrong?" "No, not at all," I hastily assured him and smiled, reaching down to lace my fingers with his. "Just that I think I might've caught up with you. Now we're on the same page." ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ Preparation for the tenth round began. Callum drew up a schedule that revolved around spending several hours at the gym, spending another few hours at Keith's house for a one-on-one practice session and a strict protein diet, just to name a few. It gave me a headache just looking at the schedule he'd came up with, and I pushed it away when Callum and the other boys had showed it to me. "It looks good," I said faintly, trying to smile when Miles cast a worried glance in my direction. I was glad to see I wasn't the only one looking rather pale and intimidated by the whole thing. "Just don't make me be there." Greg looked confused. "Be where?" "The gym, Keith's house, anywhere," I muttered, waving a dismissive hand at them and returning to stocking the shelves at the shack. "I don't want to be a part of this." "You already are," Callum pointed out shrewdly. I didn't turn, but damn him. He was right. I was a part of it, a big part of it, ever since I first met Miles. And I couldn't remove myself from it either. All I could do was watch pathetically from the sidelines while Greg and the others trained him up. I hated feeling so helpless. But, as Miles said, it was a feeling I had to live with from time to time. And so it began. The mindless routine that they fell into, day in, day out, making the best of summer while it lasted. Miles somehow managed to push around his schedule so that he still had time to teach me everyday. He came over every single day, sporting new bruises and small cuts, bruises and cuts that I tried to fix and heal consistently. He always looked tired to the point of exhaustion but still eager to teach me. I didn't know how he could stand it. I felt tired just looking at him. Some afternoons, when he was far too tired to even speak, let alone teach, I simply dragged him away from the table and forced him to lie down on my bed. We didn't talk, because sometimes silence was the best remedy to a lot of things. Instead, I wrapped my arms around him and breathed him in as he fell asleep, his heart thrumming steadily under my chest. On several occasions, I began to wonder if his father knew what he was going through. Surely, surely, he had seen the bruises and cuts his son was sporting. Or maybe he never looked at his son to begin with. Maybe that was why Miles ached for just a simple glance from his father. My answer came on one of the afternoons, when Miles and I were lying on the bed. He wasn't asleep, his eyes stared fixedly ahead, his fingers tangling and untangling themselves between locks of my hair. "My dad spoke to me today," he began softly, so softly I almost thought I was imagining it. My ears perked up at that and I shifted so I was propped up on my elbows. "What did he say?" "Well, first he asked how the initiation was going, if I'd gotten through already. Then he asked where I was getting all these marks from. I guess wearing a sweater around the house doesn't do much to cover up," Miles added, with a light chuckle. A small part of me desperately wished that his father had listened to me that day, when I told him to look at Miles for once. Maybe he was slowly understanding. Maybe I'd gotten through to him. That was a bizarre thing to wish for, but I'd kept my fingers crossed behind my back and hoped for the best. The days flew by and before we knew it, we were at the doorstep of the tenth round. Miles still came to teach me the day before the Durden. But I could tell that he was a little on edge that day. He wasn't in a bad mood – no, it was something else. The way his fingers fiddled anxiously with nothing at all, the way his jaw clenched and gaze grew distant every so often. We finally gave up on studying, and I spent the rest of the hour applying cream and antiseptic to his cuts and bruises. They didn't seem to hurt much but I knew it was only because Greg and the other boys were taking it easy on Miles. I tried not to flinch when I saw a particularly nasty bruise on his knee, keeping my lips shut tight as I applied cream to the spot. Miles noticed me hovering worriedly over that spot, and he chuckled. "One more to add to my collection of battle-scars," he quipped mock-cheerfully, before shaking his head with a sheepish smile. "Sorry. Bad joke." "You're not wrong. They are battle-scars," I murmured. There was no stopping the following words that streamed past my lips, even though they were barely audible. "But you are a foolish warrior and this is a meaningless war." He flinched and I knew that I had hit a raw nerve. Because as meaningless as this whole thing was to me, it was the real deal for him. His last glimmer of hope, to get the love and attention he so craved for from his father. I was just about to apologise for my blunt words when I heard him speak. "I'm scared." His voice was so low it was almost inaudible. I glanced at him, but his jaw was clenched as he stared at the floor. "I know what's in store for me. A part of me would kill to get in, but the other half of me would do anything to get out." I studied him, and couldn't help but think about how entirely raw and honest this moment was. Most of us, at least, were filled with false bravado, and it was entirely unexpected to hear a boy confess how he was feeling. "I'm not going to lie, I'm scared as hell for you," I admitted, and got up from my position, going over to him. His arms immediately wrapped around my waist when I settled down on his lap. My arms were curled around his neck, and I pressed my lips to his forehead, felt him exhale shakily against my skin. It was difficult to ignore the shiver that glossed down my spine and I desperately wanted to kiss him senseless, but – no. I stopped myself. This wasn't the time for that. Instead, I drew away, sliding my palms against his cheeks and tilting his face up so he was looking right at me. In that moment, nothing else seemed to matter. Not the Hell Weeks, not the Durden, not even our future. I liked how it all faded away. "But no matter what happens," I continued, softly, and saw him drinking it all in – my words, the gravity in my eyes, the movement of my lips, "you are my warrior. And this war will end."