Dichotomy.

The bus is empty when I wake up and roll out of my bunk, so I know I’m probably late for something.

I check the time and then our schedule that’s been left on the table by our manager.

“Fuck,” I groan, noting that I’ve missed both an interview and sound check.

I grab a change of clothes and lock myself in the bathroom hoping that I don’t miss the meet and greet that’s scheduled in twenty minutes.

I rush out of the bathroom when I push the door open and almost run into-

Him.

“Good morning,” he smirks.

I slip past him, already annoyed.

“Don’t worry about soundcheck. We took care of it,” he says, following.

“Thanks,” I offer begrudgingly.

He doesn’t respond; just stands there, a little too close; making my stomach is flutter with unease.

Our eyes lock and the strange feeling numbs my senses while his brown ones study my disposition.

He takes a step closer before he realizes he’s doing so, and I automatically take a step back.

My back is against the fridge and he takes an extra step, noticing.

“Get away from me. I’ll-” I manage to begin.

“You’ll what?” he challenges, cornering me against the fridge and counter just by standing too close and placing his hand on the fridge to the right of my face.

“I’ll-” I start again, various threats running through my clouded mind.

And it’s not as if my threats are validated.

He’s just standing, after all, and he’s always trouble with the concept of personal space.

He’s just standing with his face unreasonably close to mine.

It’s more his bus than it is mine, anyway, so he can do what he wants.

The truth is, half the thoughts running through my brain aren’t so much threats as I’m noticing things about him.

I hate that I’m noticing how his breath smells faintly of Redbull and that I’m finding the slight hint of stubble on his face incredibly sexy from where I’m standing.

I hate that I’m noticing that he needs a haircut unless he’s going for the Paul McCartney look circa 1965.

I hate that I’m noticing that my throat is going dry because he’s that close, and getting closer.

Rewind to- God, anything, just rewind.

My noticing is interrupted by his phone ringing, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding in relief.

He exhales impatiently, cool breath ticking my face and giving me unwarranted goosebumps.

But he doesn’t let me go that easily. I’m still trapped between his body and the counter as he answers, and still contemplating kneeing him in an unpleasant area.

“Hello?” he asks, glancing down as he listens to the other end.

I don’t move.

I can’t.

Maybe for other reasons besides the obvious physical ones.

“Good. No.” He glances at me at a pause in conversation. “Look, I have a meet and greet in a few minutes. I’ll call you later.”

“Bye.” He stops, hesitating. He’s still looking in my eyes. “I love you.”

The goose bumps are gone.

He blinks and shoves his phone back into his pocket, shaking his head.

“You have a girlfriend,” I state, attempting to sound nonchalant.

And probably failing.

But my heart is racing because he’s still so close.

“Yeah,” he says, now avoiding looking at me.

I glance from his eyes to his plush lips, almost craving to know what they’d feel like on my skin.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, blinking, finally backing away and walking out of the bus. “We need you in the merch area in five,” he adds, over his shoulder.

Rewind to where ignorance was bliss, and I didn’t have to feel guilty for flirting, if you could call it that.

I hate him.

But I hate the girl on the phone more.

I hate her because she has what I want.

And fuck, I hate myself for wanting him.