Haphephobia: the fear of being touched.
Blake, a second-year Psychology student, hadn't ever heard of such a phobia, until the day he was hired as a guide for Dean, the heir of a rich family.
Even though Dean had the appearance and behaviour of a ge...
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This part follows right after the previous one, so I advise you to re-read part 1 :)
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Dean's feet stopped at the end of the stairs. He couldn't see Blake from where he stood, but he could hear the TV so he should still be in there. Dean had extended his shower as much as possible, but he still didn't know what to say to Blake. He wasn't even sure what had happened.
With a sigh, he leaned back against the wall, looking up at the stained-glass dome. The sky outside darkened by the minute, erasing the warmth of the sunset. He should get started with dinner.
His slippers shuffled on the floor as he crossed to the kitchen, where he began gathering the ingredients he would be needing. From one of the bottom doors, he scavenged for the right pot, filling it with water before laying it on the stove. The sound of steps entering the kitchen made his finger falter, followed by a bench dragging on the floor. It was a good sign that Blake had come to him, but that didn't lessen his apprehension as he finished choosing the stove settings. In spite of the initial hesitation, neither of them wanted to drag-out that weird tension so Dean did his best to silence the pessimist murmuring that hovered over him and turned around.
Blake sat on the opposite side of the kitchen island, head propped on his hand. Their eyes met and a small smile curved Blake's lips. - Whatcha doin'?
Dean smiled as well, reaching for the salt. - Dinner.
- Thank you, I would never have guessed.
His smile stretched as he turned to the stove to add some salt to the pot.
- I'm making Fettuccine Alfredo.
The bench scrapped the floor again and, in seconds, Blake was peering over his shoulder to the saucepan he laid on the stove. - Can I help? - Blake's voice brushing against his skin had the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and his mouth going dry. Blake was close, yet not enough to touch him, which he was thankful for. There was no way Dean could look at him without combusting, so he just focused on doing his best to keep his nerves from showing.
- You want to help?
- That's what I said.
- Hm, I don't know. - he feigned an unsure tone as he stepped aside to the fridge to grab the heavy cream he had prepared ahead of time. - It's rude to have a guest working.
