Deep End

by Ali Hazelwood

I can be brave. I can be anything for noodles.

The subject line just reads What you need. The body: If you decide to go for it, I think it should be me.

“He deserves to live his best sexy, depraved, dungeony life.”

Scarlett: Do you really want to be reminded of my computational superiority that often? Unknown: I do. I have a thing for women who are smarter than me.

Lukas could do whatever he wants to me, and I’d welcome it.

I don’t get to finish that sentence. Because Lukas Blomqvist takes a long step, pushes me into the wall, and kisses me.

I feel used, deliciously so. But not like one might use a thing, only to discard it. I feel precious, something able to bring pleasure, a product of enthusiasm and instructions well carried out.

felt

A strong hand shoves me inside his room. And a second later, when I’m about to trip over my own feet, an equally strong arm catches me around the waist and pulls me back to his chest. The door closes behind us. Lukas’s face buries in my throat with a long, sharp inhale. “You always smell so fucking good,” he murmurs against my neck, and my heart breaks into a race.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“You sweet thing. You were made for this, weren’t you?”

Lukas 🫠

“You’re pretty when you beg.”

help me

Mysig. Swedish adjective. Cozy. Warm. Soothing. The quality of sharing a comfortable moment with a person whose company one enjoys.

“If you don’t think that I’m very aware of your presence, always, you have no idea what’s going on.”

I get to take you apart and split you open—but if anything else, anyone else makes you feel sad, upset, cracked, I also get to be the one who puts you back together.

“I fuck you because you’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever felt, Scarlett.”

Confidence is showing up, and trying, and not giving up because deep in your heart you know who you are and what you’re capable of.”

“You’re fucking adorable, Scarlett.” He tilts my chin up. Another kiss, this time on the tip of my nose. “It makes me want to wreck you.”

“I’m not that smart—” “Shut the fuck up, you brilliant, beautiful genius.”

Scarlett: He probably thinks we’re dating. We should set the record straight. Lukas: Or maybe we should just start dating.

That’s where it lives, my love for him. In the space between the things he could do, and what he chooses instead. Care, swallowing violence, swallowing care. Over and over again, until it’s all exquisitely tangled up together.

“Sweetheart. I’m here to pick you up,” he whispers. “Fuck you into a thousand little pieces, and then put them back together. You don’t need me to do it, but it’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to fix you?”

“I want to do this with you every day and night for the rest of my life.”

It has to be love. It’s expansive and all-consuming and full and joyous. Hungry. Thick. At once heavy and light. Everywhere and golden. It’s him and me and the myriad of little strings that tangle us together.