The light was fading from the window I sat by, the sun falling ever lower in the sky. It couldn't be much longer until the horizon was streaked with purples and pinks, shocking the clouds into color. I nearly had the timing to perfection by now, and yet I'd never once looked at the site of sunset. What could be so grand about watching colors momentarily grace the atmosphere if they were only to fade and reappear the next day?

Nina would be racing for her camera right then, I could have no doubts about that. Nina would want to capture everything deemed beautiful and develop it so that she could enjoy it forever. Sunsets, lightning streaks, even the streaks of light as cars flew down a street. Pictures of frozen trees adorned her room, even snap-shots of bridges. But who was I to criticize her when I saved all that she gave me, myself?

Right now, though, the oncoming sunset served only one purpose in my mind: a cue to flick on the light switch and swarm my dining room with light. I needed desperately to buy some bands for my hair. I'd snapped my last hair-tie this morning and thus the black waves of my hair were spread across my backside and continuously slipping into my face or around my pencil.

No matter how many times I twisted the long mass together, it always found a way to unravel and trickle down my shoulders. With the amount of times I dropped my pencil to scratch at my shoulder, or perhaps just before my ear, I was about ready to give up. The only factors keeping me calm at this point were the sounds of Bittersweet Symphony floating from my iPod and the otherwise quiet house. Alas, the only thing preventing me from throwing my dictionary across the room was that I had promised to email my editor the ending chapters to my latest story by tonight.

Just a few more paragraphs and I could be free to... type it. What a promising day I have ahead of me. Still, at least I'm getting it done. Then I can do things in peace.

I was just beginning to scrawl in the last paragraph, words easily flowing to send my character moving, escaping to a new life as she always did, however disappointing it was, when a hand pulled my hair back and settled on my shoulder.

My reaction was immediate, jerking out of this hold and spinning my chair to face whoever the intruder was. I had not heard the door open, nor had I even registered approaching footsteps. My eyes had to be wide, scared, nervous. However, it was not my eyes that took away from my well-timed response but my clumsily letting my pencil clatter to the floor and crashing my elbow into the table ledge. I had gone from smooth reaction to embarrassment in a matter of seconds.

With raw nerves and indubitably flushed cheeks, I glanced at the person staring down at me with a twinkle of laughter in his eyes and a guilty smile. I should have known it was him all along, but relief was over me all the same. I never liked to be shocked out of writing, and so it was a true rarity that it ever happened. Even as I glanced at his all familiar ginger locks that were in dire need of being cut, my heartbeat was still racing faster than normal.

Closing my eyes and releasing a sigh of breath as the song on my iPod switched to Semisonic's Closing Time, I leaned my head into his stomach. I couldn't see or understand anything of what he was doing now other than the calming touch of his arms hugging me to him through the fabric of my shirt, but I didn't care. By the muffled noise outside of my earphones, I could conclude that he was saying something, but I paid no mind to understand it, burying my face deeper into his comforting frame.

My elbow, thankfully, hadn't been hit on the funny bone and subsided in pain nearly as quickly as it erupted. I only now had to recollect my pencil and pray I hadn't destroyed it. So, I carefully retreated from his arms, instead fingering the simple ring on my finger, cautious not to fall to another contretemps. He'd stopped talking now, but was still watching me as I switched off my iPod and set it on the table beside me. He almost looked nervous, though I couldn't imagine what for.

Breaking my gaze from his brown eyes, I crouched to my knees to retrieve my pencil, only to find the mechanism to have a piece broken off. My curiosity quickly turned to a disappointed frown as I tossed my mechanical pencil into the waste basket. I really needed to go to the store now; that was my last pencil. If I still had any intentions of finishing this book on time, I had to get moving.

That thought, however, was quickly banished from my head when I heard shuffling in the open walkway to the next room over. From my position squatting on the floor I could easily see that Greg had not moved and so I stared at him in question. His eyes, much to my dismay, were elsewhere at that moment, as he was staring welcomingly at the source of the noise, oblivious to my burning gaze.

What I heard next, however, not even he could have prepared me for.

"Marvin Gregory Zyel! Oh, honey, where the devil's the girl!?" The high-pitched squeal left me reeling, any previous thoughts flushed stark from my mind. I wanted my quiet, peaceful home back. I liked quiet, I liked slow. However, it appeared to me that the holder of this female voice wanted none of that. What she did seek was me, and from my hidden position I shifted to behind Greg's legs, hoping he would understand.

"Mom," he spoke slowly, as if weighing his words cautiously, "remember how I said to be... calm?"

"Oh, nonsense, sweetie, let's see her! I hardly think the girl'll get a heart attack from lil' ol' me!"

I was peaking between his legs now, ignoring the chiding part of my brain that was calling me a child. The woman he was speaking to was nothing less than beautiful, just as I'd known his mother to be. He'd told me about her before, of course, how she used to be a small time model in the town. If it was meant to impress me, however, it only made me more wary of her. I knew that she was used to being in the know and would likely hassle me the often moments when I didn't speak.

I couldn't help but to infer that she was spoiled. She was forty-eight and her wavy blonde hair still looked as if it'd been done professionally. Not to mention that the large amounts of jewelry and obviously expensive dress far outdid my faded jeans and modest engagement ring.

Her husband had made himself at home on my couch and was watching her parade about from a safe distance. Glancing at him, I didn't know if I resented him more or if I was merely jealous of his sheltered role in this scenario.

Greg talked less of his father, or else I found he wasn't someone for me to fear or worry about and had forgotten him. Due to that, I could only judge him on his gentle actions and greying hair, only remembering his age to be fifty. As well as the chocolate eyes his son had inherited, as opposed to his wives vibrant blue ones or my hazel.

"Really, mom, I think that, maybe, if you could just tone it down a notch..."

"Rubbish! I want to meet this darling future daughter-in-law of mine!" The lady's face was steadily transforming from it's brilliant smile to a rather bellicose and adamant glare. Her cheeks were reddening unattractively, as I could imagine mine had been, except hers was from obstreperous anger and want as opposed to my silent embarrassment.

"Darling," his father had now rushed into the mix, standing beside his wife, "maybe it would be best if you listen to Greg."

If the lady was angry before, she looked murderous now. What truly amazed me, however, was how soft she managed to make her voice, "B-but, Johnny, how can I be someone else? I'm sure you can get our Marvin to understand, r-right, sweetheart?"

The man, John, only shook his head at her, "Alexa Lauren Zyel, that is not going to work. If you want to meet the girl, you'll be doing it on her terms." He glanced at my cowering position, clearly more observant than his wife, and I ducked my head in shame. I felt horrible having this man defend me, but that didn't quite cover the horror of him discovering me hiding behind his son's legs.

Glaring daggers at her husband, having come to the conclusion that he would not be assisting her, she turned back to Greg, "Alright then, Marvin" she paused, watching his reaction to the emphasis on the first name he refused to use, "how old is this girl?"

He fidgeted uncomfortably under her stare, attempting to shift his position without exposing me, to which I clung to the back of his leg. "She's twenty-one, mom," he said through clenched teeth, now standing stock still but I still refused to let go.

"Oh?" her voice was a potion of false shock, "I would have expected someone older, with you being twenty-five now. Less naive, perhaps more experienced at pleasing--"

"Mother," he cut in sharply, his voice angry as my eyes closed and I carefully leaned into him, silently flagitating he maintain his balance.

"Fine then, stick with the novice. She certainly must be, after all of your description," the woman mumbled darkly, but loud enough for the room to hear. Greg began stumbling backwards as she spoke from my pressure, but caught himself, much to my relief, before his mother noticed or investigated its cause.

"Do you have a picture of her?" his mother continued once she'd finished grumbling, to which he merely pointed to prevent revealing me. Understanding that he would not get it, she quickly turned to her husband, "Fetch it for me, would you, John?"

Presumably to avoid a tantrum, he set off for the picture and soon placed it in his beloved's hands. her reaction, however, was hardly so kind. her mouth formed a snarl and her nose upturned as she stared at the picture within her hands.

I wasn't that disgracing, was I? Sure, I could probably give my hair a good trim and my tan wasn't the darkest of all people's, but I was in shape. I didn't have any horrific scars. Well, other than the one from when my leg was stitched, but that was hardly exposed. What, were my lips too big? Or maybe my breasts too small? But she never said, so I could not know. Still, I knew that she was hardly the person I wanted fashion tips from.

"Rosalie, her name is?" she questioned as she set the picture on the table, and Greg merely nodded. I found myself grateful he hadn't compromised my full name, but quickly pushed that thought away as I realized what she would be reaching for next.

"You said she's a writer?" she was still firing questions, but I was trying to find her hands which were blocked from my view.

"Yes, but I don't think it's a good idea to be grabbing her things," his comment confirmed my thoughts as I continued shifting my head. His stance was getting stiffer and I noted happily that he would be retrieving my work for me if it weren't for my position.

"Oh, don't be silly, we're nearly family!"

I couldn't let her get my story, let her read it. It was almost funny, in some horribly twisted way: I could publish my books for the world to see, as long as I didn't see them. No one was to see them while I wrote them, and especially no one I knew. Not unless I trusted them enough. She couldn't get it. Which meant I had to expose myself to that woman, the antithesis of all I was.

I stood from behind Greg, rushing to grab my notebook. The momentary surprise on her spoiled, oblivious face was quickly overrun with victory as she yanked the spiral from its spot. I couldn't look at anyone else or see their faces for I was in fear of what their expressions would do to me.

Tears were already pulsing at the backs of my eyes and beginning to slide down my cheeks as this stranger overtook my writing. I couldn't let another see this weakness, see me so pathetic. I could only advance to the blonde woman before me, scanning her filthy eyes over my words. The philodox characters, the prolix, the reticent, the elusive words and the scattered moments of lethologica.

I was gripping and yanking and bending pages, but for once I didn't care as I ruined the pristine sheets, as long as I got it back. I was begging futilely, my words drowned by my tears. I didn't want to meet them, I didn't care if these people liked me, I just needed that little bit of me back. I couldn't lose it to her, I had to hold on to this bit of me. And when I finally had it, I ran with it. Past the table and through the walkway, up the stairs and down the hall, threw the doorway and to my room, stopping only to grasp the railing as I tripped up the stairway.

Only on the safety of my bed did it occur to me who had been their means of entrance, but that didn't even matter to me. It only mattered that I was as far away from her as possible. I had only wanted to finish my story, and now I was living a fiancé's nightmare.

My story. Soiled now, how could I send that in? When it had been permeated by the likes of a stranger. I tore the latest pages from my notebook, gathering them in my hands to shred. I would have to rewrite everything, an entirely new ending. My editor would probably worry about them being late, but how could I use these pages now?

When I went to rip them, though, I couldn't. The pile was thin and I was hardly so weak that it was a physical struggle, but I simply couldn't bring myself to do it. It went against the grain of me. So, instead, I settled to jerk my hand and scatter them about the room, only to hear a soft chuckle from behind me.

"I knew you could never do it," he said softly, before seating himself beside me and pulling me into his arms, ginger locks tickling my forehead.

A/N: I so stole his first name from Douglas Adams, but that robot is utterly amazing, no denying it. Even ask my Asian friend, she suggested it.

I'm still not entirely sure if this will stay merely a one-shot or progress to more. It's actually been a very problematic story: it took me an hour to come up with a title and I had to ask two people whether it should be a one-shot or short story because I simply couldn't say. Only the latter, my brilliant friend Larissa, gave me an answer. She said she'd like it as a one-shot. So, if you want more, you'll really have to tell me. Because I can't decide this one on my own.