Instead of letting the argument barrel on, I kiss him, hot and heavy and anxious. And there’s that dread again. The bruising throb of This can’t last. This is too good. You’re too broken to handle this. We’re both broken, though. And our jagged pieces don’t exactly fit together, but we know how to move around the sharpest points of each other’s, how to adjust and make space so no one bleeds.
