Page 22 of The Break Down

How my desire for her isn’t just physical.

It’s spiritual.

Cellular.

A kind of knowing that lives in my blood.

She looks at me like I’m just some grumpy athlete with an attitude problem.

And maybe I’ve let her believe that because the alternative?

Letting her see what’s really under the surface?

That’s a risk I don’t know if I’m brave enough to take.

Because if she did see?

If she understood how much I crave her. And not just to fuck her, but to claim her. To tether her to me so completely, there’d never be a moment when I didn’t feel her breath in my chest.

Would she run?

Would she think I’m insane?

Or worse—would this modern bombshell laugh it off, call it some caveman fantasy, and walk away with a little shake of her head, leaving me gutted?

Because here’s the truth I haven’t said out loud, even to myself:

I don’t want just her body.

I want her mornings.

Her moods.

Her midnight snack runs.

Her off-key singing and her unfiltered opinions.

I want to build something with her.

Something rooted. Something unshakable.

But that kind of want? It’s too much for most people.

It’s old, primal.

The kind of love my ancestors would have fought wars over.

The kind that saysyou are mine, and I am yours, and nothing can undo that.

Not distance.

Not doubt.

Not even death.

CHAPTER EIGHT-KOA

Finley isn’t like me, though.

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