He wanted to make her laugh. He wanted to hold her hand. He wanted to bring her tea and walk with her through the seasons. He wanted to watch her conquer the earth. He wanted to glide his hand down her naked back, wanted to taste the salt of her, wanted to bite her bottom lip and lose himself inside her. God, the things he wanted. The longer he looked at her, the worse he felt, and the more unsteady she appeared. Her breaths had grown shallow, her eyes deeper; darker. “Cyrus,” she whispered. He shook his head, inhaling sharply as he finally tore himself away. “I won’t survive it,” he said.
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