“Hate me, Forest,” he begs, his hands dragging up and down beneath my shirt. “Please, hate me,” he continues, stopping his hand motions, “I can't keep having you look at me like I matter. Like you’re holding a door open for me, and I can have you. It’s delusional to think there’s a way for me to get to you, knowing they'll rip it all away,” he seethes, making me that much more confused. “But having you look at me tonight the way you did was worth every lashing they gave me,” he admits, pressing his lips firmly to the top of my head. I feel my heart burst on the spot, my mind forcing something
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