Page 62 of Touch

Make a choice to be here.

If you want me…

I’m yours.

Better than this. Capable of more.

Make a choice to spare his kind. Andrew isn’t asking Love to forsake her own world, but to free his. To empathize with them. To grant humans full autonomy.

Yet regardless, Andrew is hers. If she wants him.

Every declaration tramples Love’s defenses. It’s futile to argue her position when, at this point, she’s unsure whether she accepts it herself. This morning, Love had intended to make amends. She’d promised the matriarch she would do right by this mortal, however both attempts have failed.

At least this opportunity with Holly shall fix the latter, help him to bond with the female. What Love wants for herself hardly matters, nor does the pang it causes. And because Andrew shows no sign of moving—no intention of leaving Love behind—she must be brutal.

She assumes the posture of a deity. Older. Wiser. Superior. This, when she feels anything but.

“No,” she replies, feigning indifference. “It’s clear now, this fellowship between us—or whatever you’d like to call it—isn’t going to work. I don’t want your ideals, your alliance, or any bonding connection to this world. I advise you to get used to it.”

Andrew’s features splinter apart. “And the last part?”

If you want me…

I’m yours.

A fragile confession surges from the tips of Love’s being and pushes against her lips, begging to be set loose. Against every instinct thrashing inside her, Love keeps silent, shoving those requited feelings into the pit of her throat.

Andrew’s expression withers. Those wonderful shoulders stiffen, and any hope of keeping his favor dies. Yet he still doesn’t move, doesn’t turn away from her.

Not until Love juts her chin toward a spot behind him. “You must acknowledge her.”

“How am I supposed to do that when you’re all I fucking see?” he admits in a strained voice. “When you’re near me, the world could burn, and I wouldn’t notice.”

Love stuffs her heart into a steel box, locks it shut, and throws away the key. “Then I’ll help you.”

With that, she evanesces. Andrew hisses and lurches forward a step. Halting, he scans the sidewalk with desperate eyes, irises darkening when she refuses to show herself. Yet again, Love has proven herself duplicitous.

From behind a hedge, she watches him. Vanishing and traveling across distances within seconds is a magic power Love rarely exercises. She has always preferred to move slower, on her own two feet. However, it’s necessary at this juncture.

Even then, Andrew searches for Love while beautiful Holly gains his side. “Andrew?”

“Holly. Hey,” he says without looking her way, his voice brittle from the argument and Love’s subsequent exit stunt.

“Hey back,” Holly says with forced cheer. “I wanted to thank you. I liked the book you dropped off the other day.”

It takes him a moment to recall. “Oh. Right. I’m glad.”

This is good. This is good. This is good.

Love repeats the forsaken mantra in her head. This is fucking good.

Except Andrew makes no other reply. Instead, he continues hunting for Love, scoping out every corner of the area. Agitated, Love purses her lips. This man is only ever communicative with her, and their argument has made him even less responsive to the female.

Holly loiters, playing with the zipper of her jacket. “Okay well. I’m hosting a little soiree tonight at my place. Music, cocktails, that sort of thing. Mostly neighbors and friends.”

Love scoffs. Andrew isn’t the type to attend revels. But again, this is good.

When he finally turns her way, but doesn’t immediately accept the invitation, the woman hastens to add, “It’s fine if you have plans, though.”

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