I thought it likely that our pursuers had given up after the first three blocks, because they were nowhere in sight the entire travel back. Then again, I never looked much further than the boy who was carrying me home. He never seemed to realize that I was staring, but he may have just chosen not to recognize it and embarrass me. A few times, I found myself feeling guilty for taking advantage of his manners. But I couldn’t make myself glance away.

From what the mask didn’t cover, his skin was smooth and pale, flawless in every way. The bridge of his nose was a gentle, angelic inwards arch which curved between two brilliant black eyes. These were extenuated by a light swipe of shade at their edges. This effect became more attractive with the assistance of his lowered brows, which were a shade darker than his light blonde curls. We passed under fewer streetlights than we had on our abrupt flight, but the sparse glimpses of him, shining with the illumination of incandescent yellow, convinced me that angels existed.

Soon, I could see my loft at the crest of a hill, just perceivable in the fluctuating heights of other structures. I still hadn’t fully recovered from the run – I also believe I had sprained my ankle when I tripped – so I didn’t request to walk the rest of the way unattended. The boy, who I assumed saw me seeking the sanctuary of my loft earlier, began to angle our path towards the staircase of the stout brick building. His route took a sudden, unexpected turn, beginning up the stairs of my apartment’s twin.

Opening my mouth to protest and correct his mistake, I was silenced by a sharp glance that he made down at me. There wasn’t a part of my mind or body that questioned his authority in that moment. Even if I hadn’t felt indebted to him, his stunning beauty would likely have led to my immediate cooperation. I passively awaited him to admit his mistake. But he proceeded without faltering up the rickety, wooden flight of steps until we were on the landing.

The need to dispute his blunder began to pester my sealed lips again. In a quiet, regretful voice, I whispered “This isn’t my-“

A youthful and assertive voice, somewhat muffled by the mask veiling his lips, redirected my attention from the door that we were approaching. “I know. It’s mine.” My voice crystallized in my throat, cryogenically freezing the remainder of the stunted sentence. He dropped the hand under my shoulders to turn the knob; my arms looped around his neck unconsciously. I blushed at the instinctive movement, but the boy didn