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Imperials like their whips, and I like my sticky buns. And for some reason, the starving girl is in the wrong.
In fact, if most of the people yelling in my direction actually got to know me, I’m sure I would make a completely respectable impression under different circumstances.
And maybe a part of me reveled in the routine of it, of being the first person she sees.
If there is a God, this man is certainly proof that He has His favorites.
“How incredibly unfortunate for you that they had good taste.”
She smells of honey, of happiness incarnate. And it’s entirely too distracting.
I refuse to be ashamed of my softness. Gentleness is the strength that fragility lacks.
She is an intoxicating sort of exhausting, like running until you’ve lost your breath but enjoying the feeling all the while. And I feel as though I’ve been sprinting for days.
“Shh.” I run a hand down the length of her curls, feeling a hiccup jostle her body. “You did the right thing. Run to me. Always run to me.”
That is when I begin striding toward the door, shoving daggers into the band of my pants.
Yassss
He smells of something akin to fire—not smoky, per se, but similarly bold and lingering. Like a weapon incarnate, leathery and lethal.
“Just because I’m a lover, doesn’t mean I can’t admire the fighters.”
He’s looking down at me in the same way I do my stitching. Admiration lights his eyes even while he searches for any sort of fault to focus on. As though he aches for a reason to rip at the seams of what it is that has slowly tethered us together.
He’s not exactly a ray of sunshine, but perhaps something equivalent to a moonbeam. Mysterious and unnerving. Equally as beautiful, yet, soft enough to stare at.
“I just wasn’t fortunate enough to be loved despite it.”
“I didn’t deserve to smile. That is what he told me.”
Shit
“Yes, nothing says ‘welcome home’ like a newly arranged pile of garbage.”
“I always wondered how something could shine so bright, even while being swallowed in darkness.”
“I’m quite sure that even the stars are envious of you.”
“And will you be beside me up there?” “If I should be so lucky.”
“See you in the sky,”
“You are the sweetest thing I have never tasted.” Another brush of his knuckles. “And I doubt I’ve craved anything more.”
I’ve never been someone’s. And I have no idea how to be. I’m so scared of doing it wrong, that I’m considering not doing it at all.
I kiss him fiercely. I kiss him the way I’ve fantasized kissing someone my whole life. I kiss him like it’s the end of a fairy tale.
I would give him every piece of me if he only asked politely.
“Well, I would catch you, Dena, but it seems we’re going down together.”
“Just one more, and I’m free. We are free.”
My fingers are my craft, my comfort, my connection to the past I’ve managed to survive.
It’s the last piece of me left. The last physical piece of my passion in life.
I’ve never thought of her as anything less than extraordinary.
Those beautiful hands of hers. Those beautiful hands that have cupped my face, created countless pieces of clothing, clapped joyfully at the smallest things.
