“Stop looking at me like that,” he says with a smirk tilting his lips, his eyes closing. “Dangerous,” he whispers as a follow-up. Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling—the wooden beams that look like charred barrels and a vaulted design that seem so far from where we are lying. “Like what?” I smile, knowing exactly how I was looking at him. “Like you’re mine,” he mumbles into his pillow, like he’s drifting back to sleep. And all I can think to myself as I lie next to him is: that’s all I’ve ever been.
