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“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
The first flakes of snow fall around us. On my nose. Eyelashes. Shoulders. A storm is brewing inside my snow globe.
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...
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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.
Isn’t that the essence of love? Find someone worth killing for? Someone with the power to ruin you?”
“Life’s morbid. Spoiler alert—we all die at the end.”
“That was a minute ago. It’s time to move on. Don’t let the little things in life bother you, yeah?”
“For no doubt disrupting your life and tearing it apart next time I meet you. All’s fair in love and war, yeah?”
History and hysteria have more than a few letters in common.
These two? They definitely share a history, and what I saw on the balcony was nothing short of hysterical.
Moral of the story: clutching something desperately doesn’t mean you’re going to keep it. You might just kill it.
In the unlikely event.
“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.”
