I finally let the tension in my hand release. As I do, I find the cause for the pain and wetness on my palm. The stem of the rose and its protruding thorns—sharp and strong, had pierced deep into my skin. Copious amounts of blood quickly spill out, painting my palm red. I've always been sensitive to the sight of blood so, it doesn't take long before I begin to feel a queasiness in my stomach. I shot a look up at Brahms. He seemed caught off guard by my sudden change in expression as he gave a slight tilt to his head. Realization came upon him when my eyes started to water. Brahms noticed the blood and without a word, he held out his hand. I was hesitant at first but, seeing the blood starting to travel down my wrist sent me into a panic. I couldn't stand to look at it anymore so I quickly placed my hand, palm facing up, in his and brought my attention elsewhere.

Brahms carefully guided me back into the mansion. I follow suit until we reach the bathroom. He turns on the faucet and places my hand under pouring water. The water runs cold at first, causing agitation to my skin as it comes into contact with it. Brahms squirts out a bit of soap and as it seeps into my cuts, I bite at my lower lip to try and stop myself from wincing. Brahms takes both of his hands and uses them to lather mine in the soap. He carefully gets in between each crevice, interlocking his long, slender fingers with mine. While trying to hold in my pain, my breath seemed to stutter in my lungs. Instead of a whine, out came a shaky breath of air. I think Brahms heard me because his grip felt tighter on my hand as he gently squeezed.

While the blood continues to rinse off, Brahms lets go of my hand to rummage through the cabinets beneath the sink. There, he retrieves a small box of bandaids and a tube of antibiotic ointment. When the water finally ran clear, he turns off the faucet to examine the cuts on my hand. As he does so, I watch him diligently. His eyes were focused when tending to my foolish injury. When spreading the ointment, he caresses each cut with his thumb, smoothing over each one ever so slightly. It cools my cuts and the pain starts to diminish. With the absence of sound from the faucet, it is almost completely silent. All that's heard is the quick, rhythmic drumming of my heart, beating from my chest.

It must be from my adrenaline kicking in, I tell myself. As Brahms' fingers trace areas around my hand, I feel my body getting shivers. That is from my adrenaline right? My eyes look down to watch him cover my cuts with bandaids but, in my peripheral vision I notice Brahms lowering his chin. The strong need to look up takes over me. On their own, my eyes slowly float upwards until I am met with his stare. Curly strands of his black hair dangled over his forehead, hiding his right eye while the other was fully visible. While staring into his doe-like eyes, I feel myself space out and like a black hole, I get sucked into his gaze.

" Y/n..."

I hear a faint voice.

" —Y/n?"

I hear it again, but much clearer this time. Everything around me begins to come into focus as I am pulled out from a haze.

" Y/n?" I heard Brahms say with concern in his voice.

" Hmm?" I hum.

He points down and I see all my cuts had been bandaged.

" Oh, my hand..." I say as I take my arm back from him. I stretch my fingers apart and squeeze my hand into a fist. While the cuts still sting, the pain is bearable, " Thank you."

He nods and starts heading out of the bathroom. I assume he wants me to follow as he suddenly stopped to glance back. I do so and when we make it to the kitchen, Brahms pulls out a chair from under the dining table and gestures with his hand for me to sit.

" I'm ok with standing," I said.

At my decline, Brahms brings his hand down to his side slowly. I eyed him as he made his way to the cupboard. He takes out packets of some sort and empties them into separate bowls. He pours water into each and heats them up in the microwave. After, he leaves the kitchen and soon returns back with a canned good. Brahms takes out a smaller bowl and dumps out the contents of the can, which held fruit. The microwave beeps and when he takes out the bowls, I see that he was heating up oatmeal. I didn't think about it much before but, the non-perishable foods I found when at first got here makes sense now. Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire stocked up on it for Brahms. I can't imagine having to eat the same foods everyday. I'm going to be having oatmeal for the second time and although I don't necessarily dislike oatmeal, I can picture myself being tired of it quickly.

Brahms places the oatmeal, fruit, and a glass of water in front of me.

" Once you're done with your porridge, you can find me in the library," He says, leaving the room with a tray of food for himself.

I stare at the bowl of hot mush in front of me. I have barely eaten since I've been here, yet, I seem to have no appetite. There are too many thoughts lingering in my head. Down at the garden, what did Brahms mean? His words, spoken so softly yet serious, repeat in my mind.

" I'll give you reasons to stay."

I shrug thinking about it and shove the bland oatmeal down my throat. It's so thick that when flipped upside down from my spoon, it doesn't fall. Almost like it's clinging onto it for dear life. A few bites in and I grow bored of the flavorless goop. This could really use a sweetener...

I look down at the untouched bowl of fruit beside the oatmeal. Fresh fruit would work better but, I don't have much of a choice. I pour the fruit of what looks like a mix of pears, peaches, and apples into my oatmeal and stir. While taking a bite, the texture of mushy fruit with the mushy oatmeal is off-putting, however, the taste becomes a little better.

When I finally finish eating, I take myself to the library where Brahms said he would be. There I find him, standing in front of one of the bookshelves. I stood beside him and in his hands, was a book. Brahms' eyes glazed over in my direction then casually back at the book. When he looks back at me once again, it was in a very hastily way compared to the first, as if he didn't expect me to be there. He quickly slammed the book shut and returned it to its spot in the shelf.

" —I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt," I apologized.

He shakes his head, " I was only waiting for you to finish your breakfast."

I looked at the dusty shelf of books lined up with their spines facing outwards. Curious, I asked Brahms what he was reading.

He doesn't answer my question. Instead, he poses one back at me and randomly asks, " Imagining something isn't the same as experiencing it, do you agree?"

My response was curt as I replied with a squint of an eye and the shrug of my shoulders, " I guess so?" I was confused as to why he would ask me that, " So...Why exactly did you want me to meet you here?"

Brahms moved over to the seating area by the windows. As he does, I check the bookshelf, specifically near the area where Brahms put his book away. I read the spines of a few...

Let's see... There's, Understanding Human Sexuality, ok then...Pillow Talk, The Art of Seduction...Fifty Shades of—.

" I have more to tell you, Y/n," Brahms speaks up, " since, I didn't get to finish."

Oh, right...That was before I hurt myself.

I take my attention away from the scandalous books on the shelves to look at Brahms. He takes a seat on the brown leather sofa and lays a hand on the spot next to him.

I shake my head, " I'm fine-."

He nods, as if he expected me to say that.

Brahms sits on the sofa, back hunched and head down with his arms resting on his thighs, hands clasped, " Ask me anything you want to know."