I own Skip Beat. As much as I own all the gold in Fort Knox.

Boxed

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Chapter 1

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He'd been living in the apartment for years. Seven years to be exact. But he only had memories borne out of it from the last two. Only when he had met her had he found things in the apartment worth remembering.

He had known from the start that clearing out his home would be difficult. What was it that his manager said? Oh right. That the whole process would be, as most people say, "a walk down memory lane". Walk? He scoffed at the notion. Run would be more like it. Running and hightailing it out of memory lane. Away from the assault of recollections that threatened to engulf and suffocate him. Whoever started this walk–down-memory-lane bull obviously knew shit about his life. Enough, he berated himself. He had far more important things that currently need his attention. Introspection could wait later.

He walked around the apartment, trying to see what he needed to bring with him. "Needed" being the operative word here. He would only take what he couldn't live without, the rest he would leave behind.

He started at the foyer. Looking at the coat hanger and umbrella stand, he decided that he would leave them for the next occupant. He spared a glance at the shoe shelf. Ah, he'd need to pack the leather shoes. They're gifts from the President, he reasoned to himself. It also didn't hurt that they were made of Italian leather and comfortably worn in. He crouched down to pick up the shoes, and as he did so, his eyes strayed to the bottom. Nestled in the most discreet part of the shelf was a pair of shocking pink slippers. Like their "owner", the slippers, however hard they tried not to attract attention by hiding in a corner, still unfailingly caught one's eye. A smile tugged at his lips when he remembered the time he had first asked her to wear them inside his home.

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She's here again. No doubt at the instigation of his meddling manager. His left hand kept twitching at his side, itching to do bodily harm. He had to remind himself that it would be a great inconvenience for him if his manager suddenly found himself unable to perform his duties, and with a long sigh, he opened his door a little wider to let his visitor in. She was still in her horrendous fluorescent pink overalls, so it probably wasn't a complete guess that she came straight from the agency. She gave him a sweet smile as she walked in, and as she passed by, he could swear he smelled strawberries from her hair. This puzzled him since she didn't strike him as someone who would be into things like fruity perfume or scented shampoos. But then again, the girl was crazy about cosmetics. She must be escalating, he thought. He gave his head a mental shake. Escalate? She's not some criminal with tendencies to escalate. He glanced at the girl who was at the moment looking very comfortable with a large knife in her hand. Or maybe not.

She always looked in her element in his kitchen. The only place he would concede she looked better in was in front of the camera. In front of an audience, with her multitude of fans looking on, as she, the actress, showcased her thespian talents. Nowhere else would she belong. He shook his head, this time not bothered that she would notice it. He was feeling that familiar pang again, which he had now honestly accepted as a recurring bout of possessiveness that he was prone to suffer from whenever she was concerned. It took him a certain amount of willpower to pry his eyes from her lovely form that was currently bent over the counter. An act of self-preservation which he had perfected over the time he'd known her. He instinctually cast his eyes on a place he deemed incapable of inciting temptation. The soles of her feet. That was when he noticed it. She was wearing the slippers he had put out for guests. Not that he actually had many.

He didn't really give it much thought, buying guest slippers. So he had just bought a pair in his size. It didn't matter to him that most people would find it large. Hell, it was even two sizes too large for his manager who was on the taller side of average. That being said (or thought, for that matter), he looked at her feet again. Her feet looked positively tiny in the slippers. She looked like a child playing dress-up with her father's things. Urghhh, the thought had sent a shot of bile up his throat. He's already having enough trouble as it is to make her see him as a man. The added thought of him being her father figure was going to make him sick. Seriously. This was not a matter to be taken lightly, he decided.

The following day, he bought a pair of fluffy girl's slippers amidst curious stares. One look at the pink (what possessed him to pick them in the same color as her overalls were beyond him) balls of cotton and all the women had already decided that they were gifts for a friend's daughter or his niece. They were absolutely not going to think they were for a grown woman. The men, on the other hand, were thinking along the same lines, although somewhere along the way, jealousy pushed them off on an entirely different tangent. Surveying the actor from head to foot, and snickering at the things in his hands, they had decided that he probably had a Lolita complex, or that worse, he was a pedophile.

Sensing the tension that was starting to build around him, the actor gave a long-suffering sigh. All he wanted to do now was pay for his purchases and make a quick dash to his car. The longer he stood around, the more people noticed him. Women were starting to inch closer like predatory animals. Never mind that he had something in his hands that would signify that he had a girlfriend (not that it was true, but nobody knew that). Sweat was starting to form on his brow as he silently willed the cashier to move faster. The last thing he wanted today was to be ogled like a freak on show at a carnival. And as if to answer his prayers, the till dinged to signal that his purchase has gone through, and with a small smile to the sales staff, he was out the door of the boutique in four strides.

When he arrived home, he stared morosely at the slippers. Now that he had time to think about it, he didn't know when, or if, she was going back to his apartment. He was never rash and this, this was the definition of impulsiveness. How was he going to tell her that he's even prepared for her visits even though they were, up until very recently, irregular and far between? However he looked at it, it would look like he was waiting for her to come. He sat down and smacked his forehead against his palm. If he didn't come up with a plausible story, he'd surely scare her away.

Contrary to his worries that she might not return, she was back the following week, on the same day, with the same story, and with the same horrendous uniform on. He let her in like he usually did, but this time, he hovered a few steps behind her as she took her shoes off. When she started reaching for the guest slippers, as she customarily did when she came around, he tapped her lightly on the shoulder. She turned around and raised her eyebrows quizzically at this disruption of routine. He then gestured to the pair of slippers that he had put on the top shelf, and after glancing at them, she again turned around to look at him, eyebrows still raised.

He had then launched into a detailed explanation of the dangers of working in the kitchen in oversized slippers. He even threw in a vivid imagery of tripping over one's feet and cracking one's skull on the marble countertop for good measure. After the lengthy lecture, he fought the urge to shake her to induce speech. She had been staring at him quietly during the whole time, and as the silence between them started to stretch, he could see her turning ghostly white, then slowly turning the color of her clothes, and finally looking like she was fit to burst. She was so red he wouldn't have been surprised if he saw steam coming out the top of her head. For a moment he even considered calling an ambulance as she was looking like she might pop a vein. When she did speak, he had to strain to hear her. He had asked her if she had said anything, while at the same time, taking a few steps towards her. Whether it was because she was asked to repeat herself or because of his growing proximity to her, she had shouted in a very loud and panicked voice how stupid she was not to bring things of her own and how she had once again brought trouble to her senior. He had held his palm flat on her forehead to stop her from prostrating herself on the floor before him. He then patiently told her that it was no trouble considering she was kind enough to cook for him, and that it was the least he could do. If anything, he was the one troubling the girl. Before she could issue a rebuttal, he had also explained that since it was only her and his manager that he gets as guests, everything had worked out okay. His manager is now the exclusive user of the guest slippers, and she gets to use the new ones.

Smooth, real smooth. He had one week to think of a story and this was the best he could do? He turned around and led the way to the kitchen, signaling the end of the conversation. He wasn't going to let her have time to dwell on the explanation he gave her which, even in his mind, sounded as lame as a three-legged donkey.

To his satisfaction, the girl had followed him wearing the said slippers and was trying to keep up with his hurried strides. Aware that she was probably thinking that she had once again offended him somehow, he slowed down his pace and fell into walking beside her. With a gentle smile, he had asked her if the pair had fit her properly. Returning with a shy smile of her own, she had softly whispered that they were perfect. He was tempted to respond with something along the lines of how she was perfect, or something more cheesy. But he was reluctant to break the warm atmosphere that had now settled over them.

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