Stas wished he could have said he didn’t love her right then, or that he hadn’t felt a sense of urgency, some absurd need to hold her, to press her body close to his and murmur his devotion through the night. He wished he hadn’t wanted to know her thoughts, to understand each tiny story of the freckles beneath her eyes, to learn to translate each spare degree of interest from her mouth. What did she look like when he made her laugh? When he held her hand, what would it sound like? How would her breath respond when he slid his hand between her legs and whispered, Not yet, not just yet, not when
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