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“Aww. There’s the cynical asshole we all know and barely tolerate.
“You poor thing. Having somebody who cares about your life is the worst.” “Die,” Blair says shortly.
Funny as hell, sexy as fuck, and sadly, not interested.
He laughs. Like he does. Always. So. Fucking. Happy. And I want to keep him laughing because for some unfathomable reason, his laughs make me lighter.
I enjoy causing disappointment.
you never get to say goodbye to most people. They’re there, and then they’re gone, and nobody cares that you’re left behind with all those words you never got to say that are now trapped inside you for good.”
“Dinner? I’d kill for a taco.” “I hear you can get them for money these days, so you don’t have to resort to crime.”
I’ve built a wall around me. Sturdy layers of bricks, one after another, year after year. It’s safe here, hiding from the world and the people in it. Nobody can hurt you if you won’t let them close enough. But you’re also never fully alive behind the wall. You exist, safe in your own bubble, and you think it’s enough. But what if it isn’t?
“What were you doing?” I ask. “Rearranging the furniture for better sex feng shui?” “I hid your shoes,” he says and starts to kiss me, but I rear back. “What the fuck?” “I hid your shoes,” he repeats patiently and tries to kiss me again. “Why?” “If you don’t have your shoes, you can’t run out on me in the middle of the night,” he says.
“Blake?” I murmur softly. “Hmm?” he mumbles against my neck. “Remember how you said you weren’t really the dating type?” He lifts his head and studies me curiously before he nods. “Well, I was wondering,” I say. “If, maybe… you’d make an exception for me?”
“Okay.” “Yeah?” I ask. His smile grows even wider. “Yeah.” He looks down at where his thumbs are playing on my skin and then up again. Serious now. “You already are my every exception.”
About the way my heart speeds up whenever he walks into the room, even if I’m not looking, because somehow I just know he’s there. About all the things I know about him. About how I collect every scrap of information he gives me because I want to know everything. About how much I like the way he says “hi” to me in his gravelly morning voice when he opens his eyes and how I live for the sleepy smile that always goes with that greeting. How cute it is when he sometimes laughs at his own jokes. How my favorite time of the day is the night now, because that’s when he’s pressed against me, head to
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“You’re enough,” he says very quietly. “Just you.”
I’m starting to think my love language does not come in the form of beautiful words and candlelit dinners but well-placed sarcastic remarks and exasperation. Blake has clearly mastered both.
He made me love him. He turned himself into my home. Now he’s gone. And I’m homeless. But life doesn’t stop for a broken heart. So somehow, I keep going.
“What will make you stop?” I ask. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Don’t do this.” “What will make you stop?” I repeat. I have to wait an eternity for the answer. “If you ask me to stop,” he eventually says. Another eternity passes. “Then I’m asking you to stop.”
