In the Unlikely Event

by L.J. Shen

“I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.” —A.S. Byatt

Our hands touch, and there’s a moment I can’t explain. It feels like more than just our flesh links us. I tell myself it’s nothing, that I’m the only one feeling it, but then I slip my hand back between my thighs and we both shudder in unison, like someone unplugged us from an electric outlet. To burn under your fingertips, I think, is to come alive.

I sit back and let Mal reach over, grab my hand, and lace his fingers through mine over the gearshift. Life is too short not to kiss the one you want.

“That was a minute ago. It’s time to move on. Don’t let the little things in life bother you, yeah?”

Not a fucking update from a damn napkin 🤣🤣

“Oh blow the winds o’er the ocean/ and the trees, and the seas/ and the little pigeon, that never sleeps.” Mal groans, his eyes still closed. A sign of life. “Rory.” “Yes?” I ask hopefully. “You’re terrible, darlin’. Please stop.”

OH MY GOD, WHY CAN’T YOU BE UGLY?

A NOTE FROM THE CHOCOLATE BAR Best. Day. Ever.

Ma’am… not you giving the chocolate bar a damn note

He calls you love. I call you darlin’. You say you’re happy. I think you’re drowning. We promised each other so many things.

He calls you love. I call you darlin’. You say you’re safe. I think you’re spiraling. If you want the truth, kiss me hard. Or at the very least, lower your guard.

“Missed you, love. Have you lost a little weight?” He frowns, chuckling. “Looks good on you,”

Excuse the fuck out of me you English bastard??? Okay maybe being English is a disorder.

“Let’s stay and go to the party. Who cares where we are, as long as I’m inside you?”

Ewww.

Despair suits you.”

Fuck this dude eww 😷

I’m imagining Mal dicking Ashton from behind, and the air gets hot and heavy and incredibly thick in my lungs.

Excuse me 🤣🫣

“I wasn’t going to let you go, Rory. I was supposed to be the last man standing. I put up with your bullshit attire and stupid quirky dreams and boring colleagues.”

Are we ignoring this asshole???

“I bought another one in London, because the first one was left in that godforsaken dumpster in Ireland, and I wanted to propose as soon as possible.” He stops, looks down. “But not soon enough, apparently.”

“I don’t get it. I have demons, too, you know?” he said. “I’m not the squeaky-clean bastard she thinks I am. I can be a horrible person, Summer.” “I don’t believe that,” I said. “I’m selfish,” he replied. “We all are.” “Me more than most.” That was the last thing he told me before his mouth descended on mine. We slept together.

Oh so both of y’all can go straight to hell?!

Girl fuck you.

Just ask my sister, Whitney, who works for Ryner. She hooked me up with this job, and she knows better than to warn me off my gorgeous employer. Because I might be sleeping with my boss (technically, I don’t, because I was hired by his manager), but she’s the one having a baby with an English banker who apparently has a girlfriend. A fancy, hot, photographer girlfriend who has no freaking clue he’s been messing around for months behind her back. The banker doesn’t even like Whit, but does she care? No. Because he’s going to pay her way through the next nineteen years. Now that I think about it, Callum Brooks totally fits the bill. I need to make a mental note to ask Whitney about this. Maybe when she isn’t so emotional and complaining about her sore breasts.

Summer: Please answer. Summer: I guess he told you. Summer: I NEVER meant to sleep with him, Rory. You have to believe me. Summer: And I knew he loved you so much. Please, please forgive me. Summer: Omg, stop! You were going to break up with him, anyway. You told me so a million times. In my mind, you weren’t even, like, fully together. It was always Mal you wanted. Pick up.

There’s no good way to offhandedly mention to your wife that, by the way, you have a seven-year-old daughter, and oops, her mother was her dead half-sister who absolutely loathed her. Oh, and just for the record, you are ninety-nine percent sure Tamsin (the daughter—see? already getting ahead of myself) was conceived when you were drunk off your arse and raped.

“You’re the four seasons, Rory. And I promise to be your shelter in the winter. To bask in you in the summer. To crash into love with you in spring like it’s the first time we’ve met. And when you fall? I promise to always pick you up.”