BUFF by Mandy Burns

minute—it all comes crashing down. She can’t take it anymore.
    Something snaps inside of her.
    “Excuse me, but I don't normally have unconscious men bleeding from gunshot wounds laying around. Guess I'm a little unclear on etiquette here. I'm pretty sure since you stumbled into my window and you're staying in my house, I can pretty much do as I damn well please."
    She yanks her hand away and this time he lets her go. Her whole body trembles but she makes herself put at least a foot between them. It drives her mad how he can still look at her like she’s the one to have wronged him somehow. She needs to compose herself, get out of there quickly and come back when she has more control of what she’s feeling.
    “Get some rest—”
    “Answer my question." His tone is harsh and deadly cold, the fire in his eyes blaze when she shakes her head.
    “ You're the criminal. I'm the one who should be asking you questions not the other way around."
    He ignores her as if she hasn’t spoken. “Answer me."
    Folding her arms she tries to appear aloof. He’s the one who needs her. That gives her the advantage and, however little that is, she has to take it.
    “No I won’t. As long as you’re under my care, it's my rules. You don't like it? Tough.” She’s playing with fire. His eyes sharpen but it doesn’t stop her. After all, it’s easy to talk brave when the animal is wounded. “Walk away if you don't like it—Oh, that's right you can’t. Guess you're stuck here for the time being but until you can walk out of here on your own and believe me, as soon as that's possible I will escort you to the nearest exit myself—I call the shots."
    Neither back down as silence takes over. He narrows his eyes at her but he looks a little less lethal than before. He turns to look toward the small window above him even though he’s too low to look out.
    “I'm going to make some soup. Just rest until I get back," she says.
    “Not hungry."
    “Too bad."
    She walks toward the door relieved to be escaping the thick tension that has invaded her small, cramped place.
    “I said I'm not hungry." His words hold so much anger Becky has to almost wonder if some of it’s misdirected—to some unknown thing or person that isn’t connected to her or this place.
    “And I said too bad,” she mutters, moving closer to him against her better judgment. “I don't know exactly what your problem is and I personally don't care but I’m not going to have you die on me. Your fever is finally starting to come down… Just… You need to listen and let me take care of you."
    He starts to move, wiggling under the blanket. He props his weight on his weak elbows, leaning his head against the armrest of the futon. His breathing is already labored and shallow.
    “Got to get out of here.” He speaks with so much determination Becky almost believes he can.
    “What’re you doing?” He doesn’t answer her, using his one good hand to try and unwrap the comforter from his side. She settles her hand on his shoulder. He pauses, his head angles down. “Hey… I know this is hard but you need to stay still or you’re going to start bleeding again."
    His shoulders roll when he sighs and the warm large muscles under her, pulse, leaving nothing to her imagination. His fingers fold into his one hand and he hits the bottom of the futon, cursing under his breath.
    She remains still feeling more than little over her head. Silly cliché encouragements are not going to settle him. She doesn’t know how to act or deal with any of this. Finally she drops her hands from his shoulders.
    “What do you want?” she whispers, without thinking.
    His head comes up and he finally looks at her. There is no bite in his eyes, just pure unbridled frustration. And for a split of a second Becky thinks she sees a flash of remorse. His face is red from exertion, his lips quivering as he licks them.
    “I need to go home.”
    “You will, I promise,” she replies, more softer than