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Helen isn’t sure how they do this—how everyone always seems to know exactly what to say next, striking some perfect alchemy of bitchy and interesting. It’s an exhausting, constant volley of conversation. And she’s bad at it.
In her mind’s eye, he seems to pull her just a hair closer each time. I’m a pervert, she thinks as she takes a final deep inhale of his comforter before pulling it down below her shoulders.
Oh no, she thinks with a laugh, I’m thirty-one and peer pressure still works on me.
He’s so good at touching her, she thinks she might miss this forever.
“You feel so fucking good,” he exhales into her ear. “How dare you.”
“I like your tortured drama,” he says plainly.
“You could keep me your dirty little secret, come to me tasting like other men, I’d still take you back every fucking time,” he says, a muscle ticking violently in his jaw. “I’d rather have a fraction of you than all of someone else.” Helen swallows. “I don’t want that for you. For either of us. It’s not—it’s not healthy.” “I don’t want to be healthy,” Grant says, and his chest is heaving as if he’s just run a marathon. “I just want you.”
And when it’s all over and we’ve reached another ending, my ashes would be scattered over the tree that grows from his body because till death do us part wouldn’t be enough, because I’d need more than one brief eternity with him.
“You don’t have to be completely healed to be everything I want. To be mine. I love every part of you, you silly, infuriating woman. I love the parts of you I haven’t even met yet.”
Want me, love me, have me, keep me, her pulse races to communicate.

