“You were phenomenal,” he tells me. “I’m starting to think there isn’t anything you’re not amazing at.” “I just want to be good for you.” “You are,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “So fucking good for me, all the time.” But the double meaning lingers in the air. Maybe if I’m good enough, our inevitable end will never come. Maybe if I’m good enough, he’ll choose me.
