[Past] The Blonde 2

The next day broke with a dull ache in her bones, a feverish heat prickling her skin. She lay in her small room, the bed a soft haven beneath a thin blanket, her breath shallow. The walls—pale blue, scuffed—closed in, the single window shuttered against the morning light.

"I'm don't feel good today," she croaked to the maid hovering by the door, a stern woman in a gray uniform, her arms laden with a breakfast tray. "Tell Mother I can't attend her class."

"Ok, ma'am," the maid replied, bowing curtly. She straightened, her lips curling faintly. "They wouldn't care if you were absent."

"Say again?" The girl's voice sharpened, though it cracked with fatigue.

"You heard me, girl. Stop calling me for pointless errands." The maid's tone was acid, her eyes narrowing as she set the tray—half a meal, cold toast and a bruised apple—on the bedside table.

"I'm sorry," the girl murmured, shrinking back. "But please, tell my mother."

"Tch." The maid clicked her tongue, snatched the tray's cover, and stormed out, the door thudding shut behind her.

Alone, the girl sank into the mattress, exhaustion pulling her under. Sleep came fast, a deep, dreamless void that cradled her bruised body and quieted her racing mind.

Hours bled into evening, the room dimming as shadows stretched across the floor. She slept soundly, her blonde hair splayed across the pillow, her skinny face slack, her breath a soft rhythm. A blanket draped her, hiding all but her head and neck, a cocoon against the world.

A boy slipped in, younger—twelve, perhaps, to her fourteen—his steps silent on the hardwood. He settled into a chair beside her bed, his dark-brown hair tousled, his wiry frame tense beneath a loose shirt and shorts.

He stared, brow furrowed, studying her boyish features—short blonde hair, thin neck, a puzzle that didn't quite fit. Restlessness gnawed at him, his fingers tapping the chair's arm, until resolve sparked in his eyes.

"Here we go… slow…ly," he whispered, his voice a hushed tremor. He pinched the blanket's edge between his fingers, lifting it with painstaking care, inch by inch.

Her lime-green polyester T-shirt emerged, rumpled and clinging to her slight frame. He paused, breath held, then tugged further. Blue shorts appeared, faded and simple, hugging her hips. He eased the blanket aside, his gaze lingering on the shorts, curiosity burning.

gulp

The sound broke the silence, his throat bobbing as he stretched his hands toward her waistband. His fingers hovered, a hair's breadth from the fabric, when her hand darted out—swift, unconscious—clamping his wrist.

In a blur, she yanked him onto the bed, her legs snapping around his waist as she rolled, pinning him beneath her sleeping form. Her arms encircled him, hugging him tight like a stuffed toy—one hand gripping his wrist, the other pressing his waist to hers—all without a flicker of awareness.

He stiffened, breath catching, his body twisted awkwardly—one hand trapped between her thighs, the other pinned by her grip. He wriggled, pushing against her hold, but each squirm tightened her embrace, her sleeping strength unyielding.

Time stretched, his struggles fading as panic dulled. He exhaled, assessing his trap—stuck, no escape. Resigned, he turned back to his mission, the question that had lured him here: boy or girl?

Carefully, he inched his trapped hand—the one between her legs—toward her shorts. Bit by bit, his fingers edged closer, brushing the fabric, then lower. "Just a little more…" he breathed, his touch grazing her nether region.

No bulge, no sign of what he'd wondered. She was a girl, her boyish shell a lie. Relief flooded him, his curiosity quenched.

She slept on, undisturbed, her breath steady, her hold firm. He stayed still, pinned beneath her, the room quiet save for the faint creak of the bed. Minutes ticked by, her grip unchanging, her face serene in slumber.

Then, a soft stir—a hum in her throat, a twitch of her lashes. Her hand on his wrist slackened, sliding to rub her eyes, though sleep still cloaked her. She shifted, cuddling him closer, her cheek nuzzling his shoulder, her body warm against his.

Her eyes fluttered, blinking slowly, hazel irises clouded with dreams. They widened with each blink, snapping fully open as they locked on his face, inches away, vivid in the evening gloom.

"Good Morning… Ah wait, it's, Good Evening miss," he said, his voice steady despite the flush creeping up his neck. "My name is Gino and I am your new caretaker."

"Umm… Gu… Good Morning to You too, ma…" she mumbled, her words stumbling, hoarse from sleep. "M.. .yy name is... Kayla. What are you doing on my bed?"