Chapter 18

When I saw his face, but it wasn't yet covered in tears, I heard him sob for the second time. When I initially noticed him crying, he hugged me, but when I pushed him away, he gripped me even tighter since he didn't appear to want me to witness his tears.

What made him cry, and why? Is there something wrong with this? What sort of issue is there in love? I neglected the fact that he had no interest in dating or anything else.

At the moment he said it, I abruptly returned to reality.

"Leave me alone," He said wearily.

"Y-You're not okay..."

He pointed at the door with one hand while shouting at me, "Obviously! That's why get the f**k out of my room!" His head was still lowered.

I'm not sure if I'll be irritated—he must be crazy—because I was asked to leave his room despite the fact that I was not acting in any way.

I would have responded, "If... If you have a problem, you may tell me," and moved toward him.

I interrupted him before he could finish, saying, "One more step and you'll know what I'll do to you." I then sat down next to him.

I said and turned to face him, but his head was still bowed, and another hand covered his face with blood. He continued, "Since my parents died, I also wanted to always be alone. I used to show others that I was brave and didn't cry, but now I've realized that it's okay when there is with you, there is someone you can tell the problem is that you can be with someone.

"You know you're lucky, because your mother is still there. At your age, that's your luck, so you can tell her all the difficulties and when you're angry. I was in high school when she vanished. My parents, we had a lot of problems. We had an accident back then involving my parents, and while I am lucky to still be alive, they were not. "

Why are you telling me that, I wonder?

"Question it," he said, still working hard to control his stuttering.

"I just want to express that you're lucky, and I simply want to share that. Do you believe that your mother is a good person? "

"I'm not sure, and I don't want to talk about them. It states, "All I want is peace of mind.

I looked at his hand while I did so.

When Mrs. Ferrer learned that her hand needed to be treated, what would she say? That I'm simply cleaning and I don't pay attention to her child, that his nanny is that careless? But surely it's not my fault that he was hurt today!

I start by asking, "Will you?" "Ahh ehh."

"Let's treat your wound first, oh," I said with a grin that quickly vanished once I saw that he had tears on his cheek. He cried a lot, which is why I failed to notice his tears.

He answered coldly, even averting his eyes, "No, I'm OK.

He scowled at me and it was clear that he didn't comprehend what I said: "Maybe you're good, but your hands say the opposite Sir Xander. Nothing will be lost if we cure it now, just relax I won't pick you up or anything."

I merely got up and began hunting for treatment for the wound on his hand while grumbling that I had walked on what appeared to be a sharp object.

I could hear its irate voice: "Stupid!" He pushed me to the edge of his bed as I sat down after I felt his touch on my elbow. When he returned bearing medicine after seeking for something, I also objected when he touched my foot.

While I was attending to the wound on my foot and it appeared as though I was in shock, I stepped on a small piece of broken glass.

I suddenly understood that he must be the one I was looking after; does it not seem that things are going the other way now? I just stepped on some significant blood on his hand.

I took a big breath before staring him in the eye, I had to calm down first, "Wait, it's okay to treat me, I should treat you now.

Despite having a serious expression, it never moves violently.

He gently raised my leg and treated the wound; if he didn't care about me, why else would he be doing this? The two sides of him—pretty caring serious and serious serious really gets—have already bewildered me.

Before I could receive medical attention, I escorted him to the restroom in his room to wipe up the blood.

I was going mad when I saw a black boxer short that was simply hanging off to the side and appeared to be waving at me. How do I see?

As I cleaned his wound and then covered it, he remained silent. I made him sit on the edge of his bed when we came out of the restroom.

He now behaves like a youngster who merely follows where I'm pulling him, so I'm not sure if I'll laugh at him. I feel like I've just taken over as the boss over here.

I began to treat him, so I was a little taken aback when he abruptly turned to look at me from the pain. I blew on his hand right away, and after that I bandaged it. I was able to breathe easily because everything was well; the only issue was how his room was cleaned, which appeared to have been battered by a hurricane.

When our faces were close enough, I stopped raising my head to ask, "Is there any more pain—" I gulped them down one by one as I focused on its somewhat livid lips.

I got to my feet and started to walk away from him, but I was suddenly unsteady because of confusion. Time seemed to slow down as it approached our waists and tugged so hard that both of us collapsed to the bed.

My chest hurt, I assume it hit the wall, so I murmured, "Ouch." When I realized I was sitting on him, I simply stopped.

Have I offended my boss? Sir Xander not being gay? Wtf...

Why does it feel like he's taunting me or maybe he's criticizing me when he says, "Don't you have any strategy to get out on me? Don't you know you're heavy?" I'm not that hefty, I promise!

I repositioned myself as I observed him stand up as well. I then realized that his hand had been wounded, and that he had previously touched my waist. He may have been wounded. He cut me off before I could say, "Your hand."

Saying, "Stop talking about it; they're OK."

I whispered softly to myself, "I'm just worried," and continued to stare.

By the way, Sir Xander, will I clean everything up?

He answered, "No, I'm the one who cleans, it's embarrassing for you," and I scowled in response.

What the heck, when did he learn to speak that way?

I said to myself, "I said I'm the maid, aren't I Elyse?" but I raised my voice so he could hear since I genuinely meant to listen to him.

As it shook and turned to face me, I abruptly remembered the prior one. I'm not sure why he sobbed or why his room looked this way when he was sobbing.

He asked me seriously as he appeared to be waiting for me to complete what I was saying, "Sir, why are you um..."

I paused, unsure of whether to ask him more questions or to remain silent. "Um what... ah, go out first. I'll just clean your room." But because I'm curious, that's also a method for me to support him and stay close to the two of us. Can I really assist him? Perhaps I'm just making his headache worse?

He didn't say anything; he simply left, leaving me here by myself. I'm with him right now, but he's broken everything. It's an expensive TV, therefore he's just squandering money! His cellphone came next, followed by the other items. I was never the one who damaged stuff.

I have never broken anything, regardless of how horrible I am or how I am feeling.

Because if I did that, the items I bought at the time would have been a waste. With the money I used to buy goods, I worked really hard.

When I started cleaning, my palm slightly hurt from the vase's little fractures. I put the little rubbish in this tiny trash can that I had moved to the side.

I quickly tidied up the clutter on the floor and quickened my motions when I realized that I wasn't yet done cooking.

I went to his cabinet because it was open and one of his clothing had dropped inside as he was also organizing his belongings in the drawer. I adjusted it and was about to shut it when I saw a notebook with the word "Diary" written on it.

I took it and gave it a close look out of curiosity. I mused to myself, "Diary? What is it? Is it just a display in his cabinet or is he writing it?"

When I opened the notebook, I discovered writing within. I read the first letter, "Dear diary," and I was going to read more, but I decided to just put it back where it had been.

Why should I read and meddle with that notebook, I just realized, since I don't have it? If I were Xander, I would be upset that someone had used my diary without my permission. If it had been something else, it might have been okay, but a diary is a very private document.

I controlled myself even though I was extremely inquisitive about what I was since I had to be respectful in order to be treated with respect.

I walked to the kitchen after leaving the chamber, where I discovered Sir Xander seated with his head on the table. He appears to be sleeping; is he? I've been up there how long? What is the current rate of time?

I shook his shoulder and addressed him as "Sir Xander," but he remained silent.

Because of the time, I've just decided to start cooking before he wakes up because he must be hungry.

I briefly glanced at his face and then asked myself, a little irritated, "Are you still gorgeous when you sleep huh?" What made you choose not to be gay? Many ladies may rush after you to ensure that you are not like that; perhaps even simply seeing her stopped naked will cause their underwear to actually fall off.

After I finished cooking, I set everything out on the table, but Sir Xander hasn't moved from his drowsy snoring sleep since. He appears to be exhausted right now and to have had no sleep yesterday night, if that is even possible.

I simply sat down next to it, resting my head and both of my hands on the table.

I'm currently fixated on its face. Poor question I asked myself, "Are you still serious in your sleep? Isn't there another expression there?" I'm hoping that my voice won't wake anyone awake.

I remarked playfully, "Where did you make that face, and what sort of rock are you using huh?" because I assumed he was asleep and wouldn't respond.

My eyes opened at that voice, "What ass did your mouth conceive?

It gently opened its eyes and peered right into my eyes as I repeatedly blinked.

We stayed in the same posture and I respectfully asked, "Were you awake earlier?"

Reply, "I don't know."

What? What sort of a response is that? He is unaware of whether he was awake earlier or not. Where does his mind go after that?

I'm Sir Xander.

I inquire, "Are you eating?"

"What?"

I exclaimed, laughing, "Because I want to devour you boom!" My laughter was already aching, therefore I was restrained in my stomach.

I just halted when he started talking. "You know what, if you're food, I won't eat you; I'll just toss you in the garbage."