Page 44 of Jagger's Remorse
Like tell him the truth.
Like admit that I've been ruined since the moment he left me alive.
The door opens.
"Privacy is a social construct," I say without turning.
"So is mercy."
His hands slide around my waist, pull me back against him.
Still hard.
Still wanting me.
Still mine, even if he doesn't know it yet.
"Round two already? Impressive recovery for a man your age."
"I'm thirty-two, not dead."
"Debatable."
He spins me, presses me against the shower wall.
The water soaks through his clothes, streaming over my bare skin.
"You want to know what I thought about for five years?"
His mouth finds my throat, bites down.
"What I dreamed? What I planned?"
"Tell me."
"This. You under my hands. Responsive. Real. Not the ghost that haunts me but flesh and blood and fury."
"Careful," I gasp as his hands map my scars. "You're starting to sound attached."
"Maybe I am."
The admission hangs between us like a loaded gun.
I should use it.
Should twist this confession into a weapon.
Instead, I kiss him.
Soft.
Careful.
Like we're both something that might break.
"Don't," he whispers against my mouth.
"Don't what?"
