Savior

The Girl at the Door

Jaime is sweet tea, sugar, kindness, and sun. She tips waiters well over twenty percent (even if they suck), she helps old ladies cross the street, she gives her change to the homeless on the street, she never complains, she's never rude, she is –in every definition of the word- perfect.

She just isn't perfect for me.

Layla is strong coffee, caution, mystery, and storm. She only lets you touch her if she can trust you ('trust' is a word used loosely for her), she jumps every time a voice is raised and then apologizes for it, she is offensive when confronted and defensive when not, she never complains, she's never rude, she is –in every definition of the word- broken.

And I would rip myself to pieces to put her back together.

And that is why I am doing this –why I have to do this.

"Do you want any tea? I'm all out of English Breakfast, so all I have is Niall's Irish Morning tea. It's not bad, but it has an odd after-taste, but you actually might like it. You do have odd taste buds, so it could be right up your alley. Only if you want to, I mean-"

"Harry?"

"Yes?" I breathe, the one word sounding shaky and winded and I cringe at the sound, though I'm thankful that Jaime has stopped me from rambling.

"Tea would be lovely."

And she smiles so sweetly at me that it makes me feel sick. Though, I'm sure it has more to do with the fact that I should be rehearsing what I want to say in my head, but all I can seem to think about is a mousy red-head.

That red-head and the look on her face when she saw Jaime waiting in the lobby for me; crestfallen, hurt, but resolved.

It just won't leave my head and it's driving me crazy.

It only gets worse when I pick up the kettle and see a patch of dried up chocolate on the metal because of course Niall didn't clean up after our mess –literally and figuratively- and of course fate would keep shoving that day in my face.

Layla squealing and running around the cramped apartment. Swiping my nose with chocolate. Flinging chocolate at her. Licking it off her skin. Hearing her moan. Almost kissing her...

Until Jaime walked in.

I keep forgetting about Jaime.

I leave the kettle untouched, the guilt resurfaced, and head back into the living room. Jaime eyes my empty hands.

"Guess we're out of tea after all."

I plop down onto the couch, twiddling my thumbs, biting my lips, tugging on my hair, all trying to distract myself –to formulate into words what I have to do. Jaime watches my nervous movements with wary eyes.

Then she begins to mirror my actions.

"How was your day?" Coward.

She literally sags in relief, a smile lighting up her face, "It was good. Really good. I aced my exams and my car didn't break down –so, that's always good. How's your mum?"

She is making this so hard.

"She's... the same as ever," I lie through my teeth, no point in telling her about my mum's condition now, "Trying to do my laundry and lecture me on posture, though she knows it's pointless."

Usually this is the part where Jaime would bring up meeting my mum, but I think she senses the tense atmosphere, my distant mood, because she opens her mouth, only to shut it just as quickly.