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He remains mute as I mull it over.
“Fucking thank you,”
They say dreams are a way for your subconscious to process things you attempt to avoid in waking hours.
And with every sure and damning thrust of his hips, adversary or not, I know I’ll never again crave the touch of another like I will his.
“Me.”
“Please?”
He sets his wine down and removes his shoes and socks, planting his feet in the grass to ground himself.
I’m going to declare fucking war.
Dominic died.
“Because loving you made me sick as fuck and losing you twice has made me terminal. I don’t want to live out any ending that doesn’t include you.”
