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The voice is like cashmere and chocolate. Like a gentle kiss on the cheek, a warm bath on an icy night. “Hello? Are you okay?” It’s a ray of sunshine through an open window, a cool breeze on a hot day. I want to die to its soundtrack. I want to hear it again.
Under the next streetlamp stands a girl. No—an angel. Not one of those biblically accurate ones they’d draw on the whiteboard to scare the shit out of us in Sunday school, but one from the movies. The human-shaped, heaven-sent kind with outstretched wings and a halo hovering over flowing blonde hair. She’s also wearing a fuzzy pink jacket and matching earmuffs, but fuck, who am I to question what angels wear these days?
I’m as unlovable as I am untouchable. So why the fuck is she now touching me?
“You realize I’m going to die, right?” She tuts. “Well, you will with that attitude.”
“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” I hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Guess death softens your insides, and liquid shit is coming out of my mouth too. Her wings flutter beneath the light as she cocks her head and flashes me a broad smile. It’s like looking at the fucking sun. A bitter amusement filters through me. “You hear that all the time.” “Yes, but tell me again.”
She’s heaven-sent, I’m hell-bound, and here we are, crossing paths in the middle.
“You’re actually going to die, aren’t you?” “I will with that attitude.”
But for once in my goddamn life, I don’t want to know. The moment’s too perfect, she’s too perfect. I ruin everything I fucking touch, and I don’t want to ruin her.
Wren. Her name carves into my heart and etches into my skin. I hope the Devil allows keepsakes in hell, because fuck, I’m taking it with me.
“If you stick your tongue out at me again, I’ll cut it out of your head.”
I know how her hand feels. I know the exact number of seconds it takes for her heat to bleed through my shirt and warm my skin. I could pick out her fingerprint on its texture alone because it’s etched onto my bicep, the hollows of my cheeks, the scar on my face.
knew you had a crush on me.” It comes out in a breathless, frantic whisper. “Oh, my God. I knew it.”
“Do I look like the type of man who’d have a crush on a girl who has a lip gloss for every day of the week?” he grunts. My laugh is warped and manic. “What kind of girl only has seven lip glosses?”
