“Tell me,” he orders. “What you’re thinking about.” My hands, situated on his shoulders for stability, fist the fabric of his sweater more tightly than necessary. “Why?” His dark eyes root me to the spot. “Because I want to know every single thought that runs through your head, no matter how fleeting.” A pause. “Because…” His jaw tightens, and he glances away, as if he’s irritated by even having to admit it. “It bothers me when I don’t know. The idea that you could be thinking something, even small or significant, and I wouldn’t know…it’s unsettling beyond belief.”
Cutie
