Felix Series - Tumblr Posts

part i: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the next decade.

Companion series to my sharing the bed one-shot. Follows the relationship between reader&felix from beginning to end. It will be a multi-part series.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: eventual smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending.

-

One of your father’s disgruntled bodyguards shoves you for walking too slowly.  You have enough tenacity to glare at him when you stumble, but even at fourteen years old you are smart enough refrain from retaliation.   You know your father will not take your side as you are already in trouble for sneaking out last night.  You met with some school friends and attended a house party like a normal fourteen year old, a punishable offence because your life is anything but normal. 

You just hope this punishment is a physical one.  A few smacks might sting but you’ll get over it, whereas you don’t want to lose your already limited phone or computer privileges. 

You walk into your father’s office with the expectation you will be alone, so you stop short when you see the back of a stranger’s head. 

Your father’s guests are usually suited old men or pretty young women, not a beanie-wearing teenage boy.  He’s kicking his legs like he’s in an ice cream parlour and not in a chair across from one of the most powerful men in the country.  Your father is behind his desk, hands steepled and attention determinedly fixed on you.  Punishment time is the only time his attention is so rapt. 

The door closes behind you, the guard outside slamming it shut.  The boy in the chair looks over his shoulder at you.  He has a soft face, much too soft for a place like this, his cheeks sweetly freckled and mouth like a pretty pink bow.  He has dark eyes, his eyebrows the same shade of dark brown.  His hair has been dyed a strawberry blonde, bangs sweeping out from under the beanie.  He has to flick them out of his eyes as he looks you over.  

You stare at him.  A change in routine does not bode well for you and this is a massive change. 

The boy just smiles.  It is disarming in its sweetness and it petrifies you.  You know how to behave when an ugly brute glares at you but a pretty boy smiling is unnerving. 

Your father clears his throat.  You and the boy both look his way, the boy dropping his gaze in a subservient way while you glare. 

“Daughter,” your father says coolly.  He gestures to the free chair beside the boy. 

Some days, when you are feeling especially petulant or when your father is distracted with his phone even while meting out punishment, you will stomp your foot and refuse him.  Maybe it is your stunned bemusement, but today you oblige without argument. 

Your gaze drifts to the boy as you approach your seat.  The boy does not look at you.

He looks like a normal teenage boy, wearing a hoodie under a flannel and blue jeans ripped at the knee, but you know better.  There is always a flaw and this one is immediately jarring: his shoes are army regulation boots, the same as your father’s guards, albeit smaller.  You have no idea why he would need them.  He looks about your age and is a slender, delicate thing. 

“Sit,” your father says.   You realize you have standing there, staring.  You look at your father and obey, sinking into the other chair.  “Good.”  Your father folds his hands on his desk.  “My loving daughter,” he says dryly, “It has occurred to me that your present circumstances are not the most conducive to your development and well-being.”

You cannot help but scoff.  Talk about understatement of the century.   

The security teams?  The constant surveillance? The knowledge that your wealthy father has accrued so many enemies that you can barely step outside without feeling threatened?

The fact you desperately want something bad to happen, because at least it would be different than the bad in here? 

Your father just frowns.

“Don’t test my patience,” he says.  “Especially as I have constructed a compromise according to your whims, young lady.” 

Your brow furrows.  You have no idea where this is going but you know you won’t like it, because you never like it. 

“I only want what’s best for you,” your father says.  “You’re my daughter, after all.  My only child and my only heir.  I want you protected but I want you capable, and you can’t be expected to thrive with the company of my men constantly surrounding you.” 

Your heart kicks up with hope even while your brain knows better.  Your father is not a generous man and he is clever with his words.  There is a reason he has reached the heights he has reached.  No one is better than your father and your father settles for no less than the best in turn. 

You are an agonizing disappointment, but you lash out because you would be a disappointment regardless.  Your father does not want a human daughter but a plastic doll that he can lock away until it has use, at which point he expects unending gratitude for your very existence.    

This might sound like a concession of freedom but you know him better than that.  The vice is tightening, not loosening.  You will never be free. 

“I have a gift for you,” your father says.  “This is Felix.” 

You and the boy, Felix, look at each other.  Felix smiles again.  He has the audacity to wave at you, a little salute and cutesy tip of the head. 

Your nostrils flare with a sharp intake of breath.  You look at your father. 

“What is this?” you ask, so much wrong with this scenario that you don’t know where to start.

Your father smiles for the first time since you walked in the room.  He needs to be in the position of highest power and that is obtained through making everyone else small.  The more visibly uncomfortable you are, the more at ease he feels.  He slouches comfortably in his big chair as he stares you down.  You feel trapped in the little seat across his desk.    

“This,” your father says, “is your new bodyguard.” 

You look at Felix again.  He is once more looking at your father like an obedient little puppy.  It’s for the best as you are certain your expression is betraying every single thought.  You are angry, confused, frightened.  The confusion worsens your other emotions. 

“Bodyguard,” you repeat.  “He looks like he’s twelve.” 

“I’m fourteen,” Felix says, startling you with a deep voice that does not remotely match his face.  The rounder sounds are accented with an Australian twang.   “Same as you.” 

You look at each other again.  You hide your confusion under a piercing glare.  Felix draws his mouth into a flat line, not quite smiling, not quite frowning.   He taps his fingers on the arm of the chair, a mismatched rhythm, some song only he can hear.   His leg bounces. 

You look at your father. 

“Fourteen,” you say.  “And short.  And skinny.  Look at him!  I could throw him out a window!”

“You could try,” your father says, drole.  “You wouldn’t succeed.  Oh, hush.”  He swipes a hand through the air when you open your mouth to speak again.  “Felix is more than competent, believe me.”  

Your father would not hire a second rate bodyguard, but there is simply no way this Felix kid is good for anything.  You just can’t believe it.  This is a test of some kind, maybe a mind game. 

Your hackles are up and they won’t come down.  Felix flicks some hair out of his eyes and the motion makes you jump.  He doesn’t comment.  He clears his throat and sits a little straighter, looking like every goody-two-shoes keener you ever gave a sneer. 

“You will no longer require a full security detail,” your father says.  “Not at home or at school.  No where, barring certain occasions under my discretion.”   

This has your heart racing again.  Currently, your father has guards posted in several places around your school.  No one but the school administrators know they are for you, but that doesn’t matter because you know.  You know they are not general security, that they are specifically watching your every move.  If you skip a meal or eat too much, they know.  If you talk to one person and not another, they know.  If you forget to do homework or flunk a test, they know.  If you put on more make-up or roll up your skirt, they know.  If you fall, if you laugh, if you flirt, if you breathe a little too hard, they know, and they report it all back to your father. 

It doesn’t end there.  They keep you on a schedule for your “protection” and if you stray from that agenda, they are on you.  That means no chatting too long after class, no extended bathroom breaks, no stopping to smell a fucking flower.  In the car, out the car, through the doors, at your seat, at your locker, upstairs, downstairs, fuck, fuck, fuck.  How you’ve lasted this long, not even you know. 

You spend all day suffocating under the extension of your father’s eyes, then you return home, flanked by bodyguards, only to be stuck with supervision until you are finally permitted to go to bed.  Naturally, this is the easiest time to escape so you are in the habit of breaking out at night.  You’re good at it too.  Most nights you move without any detection, having memorized all the chinks in the mansion’s high-tech security armor.  Last night was the result of some bad luck. 

Now you are here, your heart racing, your breath catching. 

It must be a trick.  You look at Felix then your father, trying to hide your eagerness and your suspicion. 

“In exchange, you will have Felix,” your father says.  “He will attend school with you as a classmate.  He is in all your classes and extra-curriculars.  You are to keep him with you at all times of day.  He will accompany you everywhere at all times of day.”  Your father leans in.  “Do you understand that?  At all times of day.”   

It does not sound too different from the security team other than the obvious fact there is only one of Felix.  Even if Felix is the most skilled bodyguard in the world, he is still just one person.   It seems too good to be true so it must be.   Your father is waiting until you are comfortable so he can rip the rug out from under you, to put you in your place, which is flat on your back like a stupid, helpless, needy baby.    

You will not give him the satisfaction.  Curtly, you say, “I understand.”

“Good,” your father says.  “I’m having a new bed installed in your bedroom as we speak.  It should be ample space for two people without your privacy being overly encroached.  When you get home, you will clear a space for Felix to move his things into your room.” 

Despite your effort to remain neutral, obvious surprise blinks across your face. 

“Wait, what?” you ask, darting forward in your seat.  “What are you talking about?”

Your father tips his head as if perplexed with your outburst. 

“Did you think you were getting away with something?” he asks.  “Constantly sneaking out at night, evading my men.  Do you know every time you pull a childish stunt like that, it endangers me and my business just as much as you?”

Your anger bubbles to the surface as quickly as his, cold laughter punching out of you as you say, “Oh! Your business!  Of fucking course!”

“Don’t use vulgar language with me, child!”

“Don’t call me a child!” you snap back with as much fervour.  “I’m fourteen years old!  I’m not a little kid and I don’t need some other idiot kid babysitting me!  I don’t need anyone fucking watching me!” 

Felix is sitting ramrod straight, his eyes flicking back and forth between you and your father.  He says nothing.  He just sniffs and scratches a little circle on the exposed skin of his knee. 

“You are my daughter, this is my house, and I will do with both as I please,” your father says. 

“Then maybe I don’t want to be in this house!” you shout. 

“You want to leave?” your father asks.  He smacks a vicious hand down on his desk, rattling his computer.  “Go ahead.  Pick yourself up and walk out that door.  Where are you going to go from here?  You have no money and no skills and no protection.  See how long it takes someone to pick you up off the street.  You don’t want to be my daughter?  You want me to ignore you when they put a gun to your head?  The least they will do is kill you, you stupid little thing.  But go on, since you’re so wise and brave and all grown-up.  Walk out that door.  I dare you.”      

You sit on the very edge of your seat, your hands balled into fists.  You long to swing them at his smug face but you can only sit there, vibrating with rage. 

“Do you have something more to say?” your father asks. 

You kick his desk, the adrenaline forcing it out of you.  He smacks a mug and it smashes on the floor.  Felix still does not react, though his gaze does linger on the broken mug. 

“What about him!” you shriek, pointing at Felix.  It draws his attention back to you, his eyebrow lifting at your pointed finger.  “You’re going to leave me alone with a boy?  In bed?”  You imbue this exclamation with all the suggestive horror you can.  “I can’t share a room with a boy!  What if he’s a pervert!   What if he takes pictures of me!  What if he rapes me!  You really trust some random boy to be alone with me?!”

The silence that follows is somehow more shrill than the yelling.  Your father stares at you, resolutely focussed with such a cold glare that you shiver. 

Felix shuffles in his seat.  His mouth opens and he looks contemplative, weighing his words, but your father speaks before he can. 

“Felix,” he says, “put your hand on the desk.” 

Felix delays only seconds, more surprised by the order than reluctant.  He obediently rests his hand on the desk, palm facing up. 

Without looking away from you, your father grabs that hand and flips it over.  Felix jerks, his feet planting, but he manages to restrain whatever instinct rattled him.  He looks at his hand, at where your father pins it to the wood. 

You look there too, fuming, then you look at your father.  He is still glaring at you, even when he reaches into his desk.  Your brow furrows when he retrieves an enveloper opener, a sleek little knife, shiny and sharp.  He smacks it onto the table beside Felix’s hand.  It makes you jump.    

Felix just looks at the knife, tipping his head as if only mildly curious.   

“Felix,” your father says. “Pick up that knife.”  He leans back in his desk chair and crosses his arms, his expression bland and uncaring as he looks at you.  You shake less from fury than fear, looking from your father to Felix. 

Felix picks up the knife with his free hand.  He looks at it, his expression revealing nothing. 

“Thank you,” your father says. 

He has not looked away from you even once, asserting his knowledge that Felix will obey without his supervision.  You try to be as steadfast as him.  You act like you couldn’t care less about the unknown boy and his freckles and beanie.  This is between you and your father.  You glare just as fiercely.  

“Now, Felix,” your father says, “I am going to count down from three, then you are going to drive that knife into your hand.  All the way through to the desk.  I trust you know the spot that will do the least lasting damage.” 

Your gaze whips from your father to Felix, staring at him wide-eyed as the stupid boy doesn’t even flinch.  He just turns the knife over.  His brow briefly pinches as he rests the tip of the knife against a soft spot on the back of his hand. 

Your horrified brain is already several paces ahead, picturing his bloodied hand pinned to the wooden desk.  You taste bile and it is only partially for the gore.  The rest is for the fact Felix does nothing more than blink at his hand. 

“Three,” your father says.  “Two.” 

You scream, “Stop!” at the same your father says, “One.”

You tackle Felix.  The adrenaline flies out of you the same as that kick.  The knife clatters to the desk and both your chairs fly out from under you. 

Felix is fast.  He flips you around so he takes the brunt of the fall, your head pillowing on his stomach when you land in a tangled heap on the floor.  His beanie falls off when his head hits the ground.  He barely winces, looking down at you. 

You stare back at him, breathing hard.

“Are you fucking insane?” you ask.  Tears fill your eyes, much to your horror.  You try to suck them in because there is nothing you hate more than crying in front of your father.   You don’t even know what is prompting the tears.  Maybe it’s the forced recollection of how thoroughly his guards have invaded your life, the revelation that you will be forced to share every living moment with another intruder, or the fact he almost maimed a fourteen year old boy just to make a point. 

Or, maybe, the fact you fell for it like you always do.  Just a stupid little girl, high in her emotions, vulnerable and weak and in need of intervention. 

You push away from Felix, directing all your emotions at him. 

“You’re a fucking lunatic,” you say, spitting when you talk.  “What did you think you were doing?  Freak.  Do you think you’re brave?  You’re an idiot.”

Felix props himself up on his elbows, just staring back at you.  His gaze flicks up when your father stands.  That awful man circles the desk to look down at you. 

You refuse to look up.  You wipe your arm under your nose.  Tears blur your vision.

“Felix,” your father says, “there is a car waiting outside.  Take my daughter home.  She is not to leave the house tonight.” 

You wrench your arm away when Felix tries to help you up.  He says nothing to your glare but at least he’s smart enough not to smile again.  He gets up and dusts off his pants, then retrieves his beanie.   You clamber to your feet and march toward the door without looking back or waiting.  Only when your hand is on the doorknob does your father call your name. 

You freeze, wanting so badly to ignore him and storm outside, but once the coldness settles in your veins you cannot move. 

“Come here,” your father says.  As if under a spell, you can only move when he demands it.  You turn, facing him as he approaches.   You hold still, your eyes full of tears and fists curled at your side. 

Your father walks up and swiftly strikes you across the face.  Tears spill over and you grab your cheek, heaving with frightened breath as your useless new bodyguard just stands there and watches. 

Your father sighs. 

“You’ll learn,” he says.  “One way or another.  If I have to chip at you with an axe until you take my shape, I’ll do it.  You’ll thank me one day.  Felix.  Take her home.  Now.” 

You let Felix take your arm and guide you out of the room, too drained to fight him.   

-

You refuse to be accommodating.  If you’re unhappy then you will make Felix unhappy too, and if Felix is unhappy then maybe he will leave.  Then your father will be unhappy and you finally won’t be.     

You glare at the massive new bed taking up space in your room.  It is still a big room otherwise, with plenty of space for two people, but your things are spread out everywhere and you have no intention of moving them.  Instead, you empty out a single bedside drawer and point to it. 

“There,” you say.  “That’s yours.”

Felix is standing in the bedroom doorway wearing a backpack.  He looks around the room, not sneering at its lacey, ivory princess-ness but not looking too enamoured either.  He is passive as ever, quietly receiving his surroundings.  He closes the door behind himself and shrugs the backpack down to the crease of his elbow. 

“Kk,” he says.  He puts his backpack on the floor by the bed then takes off his beanie and puts it in the drawer.  He sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap.  He stares at the wall. 

What a weirdo. 

You stare at him until he looks at you, then you scoff and roll your eyes.  You dump your things on your desk and stalk over to your private bathroom door.   

“Can I go pee without your supervision, or do you need to hold my hand?” you ask sarcastically. 

“I don’t need to,” Felix says, “but, uhhh, I guess I can if you need help.  But if you have a problem with doing it by yourself then we should probably take you to a doctor.  I know first aid but I can’t really help with incontinence or like the opposite. Lol.” 

He says the word lol out loud, a single grating syllable.  You do not dignify his weird humour with a response.  You stomp into your bathroom and slam the door shut.   

There are bars on the bathroom window now.  You grab the nearest bottle of soap and chuck it there, furious when tears spring back to your eyes.  You feel violated even in your privacy, glaring at those bars as you shower and wash away the day. 

You look at your reflection in the mirror, touching where your cheek feels tender from your father’s strike.  He usually doesn’t hit your face or anywhere someone could see swelling or a cut.  You suppose today’s slap was more personal than strategic.

You put on a thick sweatshirt and sweatpants.  When you step back into your room, the weirdo is standing at the window with his hands behind his back.  He is wearing just his ripped jeans and a t-shirt, plus those ugly army boots.  He looks at you when you open the door, giving you a brief assessing stare before he smiles. 

It would disarm someone more naïve.  You just glare. 

“Where are your things?” you ask. 

He tips his head like an inquisitive cat.  “Huh?” he asks.

“Your things,” you say venomously.  “Aren’t you moving them in here?” 

“Uh, I did,” he says.  He turns and points to his side of the bed.  “You gave me a drawer, remember?”

This kid unpacked a beanie. 

Maybe it’s a good sign he isn’t fully moving in.  Maybe this whole charade is just your father threatening you.  He will torture you with this invader until he thinks you have learned a lesson, then things will go back to normal.  Felix probably isn’t even a proper bodyguard, and how could he be?  A skinny, pretty fourteen year old boy?  He’s probably an actor or model or something. 

You give him a derisive smirk and shove past him.  He just shrugs and approaches the bathroom door, pausing before entering.  He looks back at you.

“Don’t go anywhere, yeah?” he says, then walks into the bathroom and closes the door. 

You exhale sharply.  You had no intention of going anywhere, honestly too exhausted to do anything but putter around on the computer, but fuck this kid.  He’s your father’s paid actor or some other nonsense, so who does he think he is to give you any orders? 

You storm out of the room with the intention of marching around outside, but you stumble when you enter the upstairs corridor.  

The huge house is eery in its silence.  You shudder as you look around.  

Even when your father is not home, the security team is here.  Someone is always awake, at least one person keeping guard in the corridor, the rest of them scattered in the house and guest house.  But they’re gone.  They’re all genuinely gone.  And because it is late evening, all the housekeepers and cleaners are gone too.  You have not been in a house this empty your entire life.  It feels uncanny, ghostly even.  It completely halts your half-baked plan to leave, not that you planned on going much further than the pool-house.

You stand still, suspended in the unfamiliar emptiness.    

“Whatcha doin’?”  Felix’s freaky deep voice is suddenly right beside you.  You jump away from with a startled squeak.  He just stands there, his mouth in that stupid flat line, his shaggy blonde hair bouncing when he tips his head. 

“Nothing,” you snap, annoyed that he scared you.  “I’m just going to the kitchen for a snack.  Is that against the fucking law now?”    

“It’s not really healthy to eat this late at night,” Felix says, “but it’s not illegal.  That would be weird.”

“I hate you,” you say.  His even temperament has been driving you insane, so it is satisfying to see a flicker of genuine surprise on his face.  “Just leave me alone.” 

“Sorry,” he says, recovering quickly.  His voice is steady.  “Can’t do that.  Sort of my job, you know?”

You roll your eyes then turn and stomp all the way down the stairs.  Felix trails behind you without protest, not making much noise despite the boots but he is impossible to ignore regardless. 

You go to the kitchen and open the fridge.  You aren’t hungry but you feel like you have to eat something now just to prove a point.  

Felix ambles up to the counter and perches himself on a stool.  You look over your shoulder at him.  He waves. 

“I’m not making you anything,” you snap. 

“That’s fine.”  He folds his hand on the counter.  “I’m not hungry.  Thank you.” 

You reach into the fridge and grab an eggplant out of the produce drawer.  It is a ridiculous response, but you decide to out-weird the weirdo, making eye contact as you bite in the raw eggplant.  You try to hide your displeasure, chewing the thick vegetable slowly.  Felix tips his head very far then straightens.  His eyes narrow. 

“I’m pretty sure that’s toxic,” he says. 

You stop chewing. 

“Yeah,” he says.  “Eggplant, yeah.  I think when it’s raw it’s like not good for you or something?  I think there’s like a chemical in it.  Maybe it’s only if you eat a lot of it, uhhh, I don’t know.  Just in case, I wouldn’t eat it like that if I were you.” 

You stare at him with a chunk of raw eggplant still on your tongue.  He could be bluffing.  He could be playing mind games.  He could be telling the truth, since he delivered each sentence so uncertainly.  Maybe he’s just bad at mind games.  You’re good at them.  You’ve been playing them since you were a child, so you just stare him down, swallow the eggplant, then take another bite. 

His brow furrows.  You are pretty sure your displeasure is a little more obvious now, your mouth partially open as you chew.   Felix did not balk at stabbing his own hand but he looks very scandalized right now.   You consider it a success. 

“Stop it,” Felix says. 

You take another bite, ripping into it with a ferocious tear. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.  “What? Are you trying to commit suicide by eggplant?”

You just shrug, chewing with your mouth wide open now.   His stool scrapes the ground and you brace yourself, shuffling in the opposite direction when he circles the kitchen island. 

“Spit it out,” he says. 

“No,” you say, spitting eggplant as you say it.  You very nearly choke. 

“Seriously,” Felix says.  “This isn’t funny.” 

You chew obnoxiously big in his direction and he pounces, smoothly intercepting your escape.   He cages you in against the counter, blocking you when you try to move. You drop the rest of the eggplant and push at him, dribbling mushy vegetable and cursing through your mouthful. 

“Spit. It. Out,” he says, putting his hand under your mouth like a mother to a baby.  You shove that hand away, then try to shove his face away.  He clearly doesn’t want to get too physical with you, but eventually he grabs your chin and holds you still, your face pinched in his hand.   You stare at him, breathing hard through your nose.  “Stop it,” he says. 

The house is empty.  The house is genuinely, seriously, completely empty.   Your father trusts Felix that much. 

Who is this fucking kid? 

You spit the eggplant at him.  It spatters on his shirt and wins you an eye roll.  It’s the first expression from him to make you smile. 

“Bed time,” he says, stepping back to brush the mess off his shirt. 

You cross your arms and lean against the counter.  “No,” you say. 

“No?” he asks.  His deep voice fractures with a higher-pitched sound of surprise.   “Why not?” 

Because you hate your father and everything he puts you through.  Because petty victories are your only victories.  Because there is something seriously wrong with Felix if this is his life situation, and there is something seriously wrong with you for the same reason. 

So you shrug.  “Make me,” you say. 

There is a beat of silence.

Then the world is upside down because Felix picks you up and slings you over his shoulder.  You cry out, slapping his back as he marches to the stairs.  Where is he even hiding this strength? 

“Put me down!”  You pound on his backside while he carries you up the stairs.  “When my father hears about this—”

He puts you down on the landing, swinging up a step to afford him an extra foot of height over you.  He holds your wrist in his hand and looks at you very seriously. 

“What?” he asks.  “When he hears about me doing my job?” 

You try to tug your hand back but Felix holds it tight.

“Are you serious right now?” you ask.  You continue to squirm your hand in his grip.  “Who the fuck are you?  What do you even get out of this?” 

“What do you get out of this - this - everything?” he asks.  

“I get my life,” you snap.  “In pieces and only for a little bit, but mine.”

“Me too,” he says. 

A breathless silence follows.  You realize you are holding his hand, having twisted and turned so much that he clasped your fingers with his.   You both look there then at each other.  You abruptly let go. 

“Can we go to bed?”  Felix asks, softening his voice.  “Please.” 

Your lower lip wobbles.  You look at the stain on his shirt.  You think about his hand on that desk. 

“And what about my other question?” you ask. 

He tips his head again, but his expression is no longer neutral.  He wears his confusion openly, briefly but substantially. 

“What?” he asks. 

“My other question,” you say, blinking back your tears.  “Who are you?” 

“You tell me first,” he says.  “Who are you?” 

It’s easier to fight and scream than plainly express yourself.  No one ever listens, so you are not practiced.  You have Felix’s undivided attention but it suddenly feels like too much.  You do not have it in you to glare anymore.  You meet his pained gaze with your own and join him on the next step. 

“I’m tired,” you say.  “Let’s go to bed.” 

He goes to check the security system while you get ready for bed.  You are already nestled under the covers, shivering despite the thick layers because the house sounds so quiet and you are honestly scared.  You jump when the door opens and Felix enters, your eyes meeting in the dim light.  He looks away first, going about his own routine.  You turn your back to him. 

The bed is big but you still feel it dip when he gets inside.  You look over your shoulder.  He is laying on his back with his eyes closed.  He is clearly still awake but the semblance of sleep accentuates the natural innocence of his face.  You have seen the flicker of a few deeper emotions, none of them childish, but he looks his age while laying there. 

His eyes open.  He glances at you.  You wonder what you look like to him. 

“Good night,” he says, shattering the terrifying silence. 

You don’t argue it.  You just nod then turn away, closing your eyes, letting the sound of his breathing lull you to sleep faster than usual.