I've never been so relieved to see a particular person's face ever before in my life.

The shock of Bryce walking into the room distracts the creep in front of me long enough to allow me to step by him despite the narrow walls of the bathroom, and I instantly fall into Bryce's arms.

His embrace feels safe, and he hands on my waist are welcome, unlike that other boy's grip.

"What the hell?" Bryce growls at the boy, who suddenly looks a lot less intimidating now that Bryce is here.

I'm gently guided behind Bryce's tall figure so that he acts like a protective wall between the boy and I. Bryce still keeps a firm grip on my hand though, and I'm so thankful for it.

I'm so thankful for him, really; that he showed up now and that he showed up after we hadn't spoken for so long.

I missed him, I finally confess to myself. I missed him so much. Sure, he drives me insane, but he's still always so sweet to me. He makes me feel wanted.

"I'm sure you know how it is," the boy says. "Sometimes the parties just don't have enough slutty girls and you gotta work a little harder," he says, finally losing his balance and stumbling backwards into the wall.

I can feel the rage coming off of Bryce right now.

"You're sick, you know," Bryce hisses. "Fucking sick. No matter how fucking horny you are, it's never okay to drunkenly force yourself on someone. Now I highly advise you get the hell away from her," he says, turning back to glance at me quickly, "or any other girl here tonight."

My heart swells at his protectiveness, and I can also appreciate how he told that guy off when he was clearly in the wrong.

My head is still spinning as Bryce keeps a firm grip on my hand, seemingly waiting for Timothy to respond. He let's out an aggravated groan and I'm sure his head is probably just pounding from all the alcohol he's undoubtedly consumed.

"Fuck you, man," he huffs, directed at Bryce, and in one fluid movement Bryce reaches for the bathroom door, slamming it shut as the boy is still inside.

Bryce guides me down the stairs and straight outside. I'm still shaking from head to toe and if it weren't for his firm grasp on me I'm sure I would have tumbled right down the steps.

We walk down the driveway hand in hand, and he still hasn't said a word to me. It's as if he's trying to rush us away from the scene as he drops my hand, then wrapping an arm around my waist as we continue to walk hurriedly.

We're about halfway down the street when Bryce finally slows down.

"Can I see your phone?" he asks me, and I nod silently at him, digging around in my pocket before handing the device to him.

"Who do you think is the most sober?" he follows up, and I know he doesn't want to hear the name, but it's the truth.

"Mateo. He doesn't drink," I answer, and Bryce nods at me before pressing a bunch of buttons on the screen.

"I'm just texting him to say that we left so no one gets confused," he explains to me, and I nod, crossing my arms across my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible.

I want to go home to my own bed, listen to a cast album recording of one of my favourite musicals, and pretend that all of this didn't happen.

I'm glad Charlie isn't here right now or else he would've beat that guy up until he was left unable to breath on his own. He's always been the protective big brother but sometimes I just want to let things go; I'm happy with how Bryce handled the situation.

"Don't you need my password to do that?" I ask quietly, and Bryce shakes my head.

"I could guess it on the first try. Your birthday. You may want to change that," he tells me, clicking the phone shut and tucking it back in my pocket for me.

"How did you remember my birthday?" I ask him, and he gives me a small smile.

Truthfully, I know his birthday too. It's a little more justified thought as he was born on Valentine's Day. Meanwhile, November thirteenth appears to be a little trickier to store in one's head.

"I pay more attention to you than you give me credit for," he says softly, just as he wraps his arms around me, his hands on my hips, pulling me tight to his chest.

He feels so safe and his arms are so warm and strong. I feel the heat of a few tears pouring down my face, and I hate that I'm standing here crying into his chest on the side of the road, but I just can't hold it all in any longer.

"Are you okay, baby? Did he touch you?" Bryce asks me, and the term of endearment, though similar to what the other boy called me, actually sounds lovely coming from Bryce.

I'm speechless, and I shake my head rapidly, which just encourages him to hold me tighter.

"I'm so sorry that this happened, Blossom. It's not your fault. Please don't blame yourself," he whispers.

We stand like this for a few moments until the tears begin to slow. He's stroking my hair gently and it's more comforting than I ever could have imagined.

"Why did you come upstairs?" I ask when I can finally form words again. "There was no one up there."

Bryce nods, pressing his cheek into the top of my head. "I had a bad feeling," he answers vaguely, but it's enough for me right now because I'm just beyond grateful that he saved me.

"I know that you're capable of defending yourself but I saw the way he grabbed you. I had to intervene," Bryce explains to me and I look up at him.

"Thank you," I whisper, barely audible, and he leans forward, kissing me on the forehead.

"Anytime."

We complete the short trek back to the cottage with Bryce's arm still around me, our fingers intertwined, and I'm huddling as close as I can to him to wade off both the cold and the fear that has been instilled back inside of me. He miraculously has a key to the place in his pocket, and so he quickly unlocks the door, holding it open for me to step inside.

My feet take me directly to the couch and I promptly collapse backwards on to the plush cushions.

"Don't you want to change into something a little more comfortable?" Bryce asks me.

"You certainly look beautiful but there is no way that dress is comfortable," he jokes around, and he manages to get the traces of a smile out of me.

He thinks I look beautiful.

"I guess you're right," I say, standing up from the sofa and smoothing my dress back down.

Bryce appears to double check that the front door is locked, before following me upstairs. I disappear into my room, shutting the door in Bryce's face after he tries to sneak in knowing darn well that I'm about to change, but it still makes me laugh a little as he pouts outside the door for a moment.

I draw the curtains shut over the windows, changing into a pair of black leggings and a sweatshirt before letting my hair out of it's tight ponytail that caused me more trouble tonight than a hairstyle ever should.

I grab a package of makeup wipes before heading straight to the bathroom where I find Bryce staring at himself in the mirror.

I guess I'm not the only one who does that.

He left the door open so I walk right in, standing in front of one of the mirrors and dragging the wipe across my face to remove all of what's left of my makeup. When I maneuver around Bryce to toss the dirtied cloth in the trash bin, I take note of how he's swapped his jeans out for black sweatpants, meaning that we've both went for all black ensembles tonight.

Bryce catches this too as he clears his throat, then in a pitchy falsetto he squeals, "Oh-em-gee, we're matching!" as if to mock me.

I stand there staring at him for a silent second before we both burst out laughing, the kind of laughter that leaves you hunched over with a stitch in your side.

When we both catch our breath, Bryce leans an elbow against the counter, looking down at me with a question in his eyes.

"It's only around ten o'clock. What do you want to do?" he asks me.

"I'm open to anything, you know," he then draws, winking at me before turning and heading directly out of the room.

Not this again.

"I thought you made it very clear that you didn't want to do any of that stuff with me," I say, recalling our conversation in my room earlier today. It was only around six hours prior to now, but it feels like it's been an eternity since then.

I suppose I did take his comment to offense a bit; I'm not that unattractive, am I? And he has told me that I look nice a couple times tonight.

Bryce notices the troubled look on my face, and takes my hand before guiding me down the stairs.

"That's not what I was implying, Blossom. It's not that you're not hot, because trust me, you are, whether you notice it or not. It's just that I assumed you were waiting for marriage or something seeing as you haven't yet. Was I wrong?" he replies, sitting down on the sofa.

He pats the spot beside him and I hesitantly sit down, tucking my legs under myself.

"Not waiting for marriage, just waiting for the right person," I correct him, and he nods at me, pursing his lips together.

"But isn't that the same thing? When you find the 'right person', don't you marry them?" he asks.

He does have a point. I guess this kills the idea that people date for experience and not just to find someone they're willing to spend their life with, but his words could be true.

"I don't know how I feel about marriage. Unless you're religious, it seems kind of pointless, no?" I ask, and Bryce's eyes seem to widen.

"I didn't expect that from you," he confesses. "I do agree though; it's really just a piece of paper. Honestly, I took you for the kind of girl who would get married to a lawyer right after university and end up having four kids and six pet dogs."

"No kids or lawyers for me," I chuckle, and Bryce rolls his eyes at me. "I would like to get married one day though."

Bryce straightens his back a little in his seat, cocking his head to the side.

"You're really contradicting yourself there, Blossom," he mocks.

I poke him in the arm which makes him laugh, and he sticks his tongue out to tease me.

"Like I've said before, I didn't come here for personal attacks," I inform him. "I really don't know why I'm talking to you about any of this anyways."

"You act as if I have the answer to that," he begins. "I think you just really needed someone to vent to, if you did want my opinion."

I shrug, at Bryce, knowing that he's certainly correct. I bite down on my lip, toying with the corner of one of the pillow's edges.

He then reaches for the television remote and presses the power button. He flicks through a series of channels before settling on Food Network.

"You like to cook?" I ask him, curling back up against the arm of the couch, resting my head back and curling my knees up to my chest. It's still somehow not that late but I'm feeling drained and exhausted.

"Yeah, my dad loves to be in the kitchen so he basically forced me into being a good cook," he laughs, standing up from his seat.

"I'll be back," he informs me, before disappearing upstairs. He returns a minute later, a laptop in his hands, resuming his spot on the couch.

"What are you doing?" I ask him as he begins typing away at the keyboard. He's biting his lip in concentration and it takes awhile for him to reply to me.

"I'm just checking some social media shit," he tells me, and his brows furrow.

"Is something wrong?" I question, and he shakes his head.

"I hate social media even though it does a lot for me. It's really just a numbers game, and it's fucking dehumanizing," he huffs, and it seems like he clicks off a tab and on to something new as he begins typing away once more.

"I'm not here to judge," I whisper to him. He smiles a little at me, shutting the screen of the laptop and setting it down beside him. His eyes remain trained on the television screen, as he watches a chef dice up some tomatoes before pouring them into a pan on the stove.

"You're the best," he says quietly, reaching over to give my hand a little squeeze.

I notice how his grasp lingers an instant too long, and his touch almost sends a jolt of electricity through me.

He instantly pulls his hand away, setting it back down in his lap.