“I like talking about your soul,” he grits out as I gingerly touch the skin around the gash. “And why is that?” I say distractedly. “Maybe,” he breathes, “I’m envious of it.” I swallow. “There is nothing about me to be envious of.” “Then you don’t know yourself well enough.” “What,” I huff, “and you do?” He’s suddenly struggling to his feet with a grunt. “You can deny it all you want, but we both know I do.”
