Page 47 of Writhe
“You could paint,” I continue, eyes still shut. “Big canvases, not just scraps of paper. You could fill the whole damn house with them, let the walls breathe with color instead of these.” I gesture vaguely at the asylum walls, at the pale, suffocating gray of them.
She sighs against my skin. “That sounds nice.”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “I’d take care of you.”
“You already do.”
I shake my head. “Not like I should.” I lift her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, my lips lingering there. “Out there, I could really take care of you. You wouldn’t have to be scared anymore.”
She lets out a quiet laugh. “You think I’m scared?”
I glance up at her, and the moonlight catches in her eyes, making them look deeper, darker. “Aren’t you?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she shifts, pressing a soft kiss to my lips, slow and lingering.
I chase the kiss when she pulls back, needing more. She gives it to me, lets me drink her in, lets me feel alive for just a moment.
Then. “Would we have kids?” she whispers.
I freeze. My stomach tightens, my heart a painful, unsteady thing.Kids. I never thought about that. Never thought I was allowed to. I lick my lips, my voice hoarse. “Would you want them?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Maybe. I think I will eventually.”
A lump rises in my throat. The image is soft and dangerous—a tiny thing with her eyes and my hands, with her stubbornness and my devotion. A family. Something good. I don’t deserve that—neither does she—but I want it. Fuck, I want it.
My fingers tangle in her hair, dragging her mouth to mine, kissing her harder, deeper, like I can pull that future closer, like I can make it real. She gasps, her body molding into me, and I roll her beneath me, pressing my weight down, needing to be inside her, needing to claim and consume and.
She stills.
Her hands press lightly against my chest, stopping me.
“Theo,” she breathes against my lips. “We can’t.”
I blink, my head foggy, my body thrumming. “Why?”
She swallows. “Not like this.”
A sharp spike of something cold rushes through me. I don’t know if it’s rejection, fear, or anger.
“Not like this?” I echo, my voice thin, quiet. “Eliza . . .”
She cups my face, her touch so fucking gentle it hurts. “Let me love you instead.”
ELIZA
His hands are hesitant, fingers ghosting over my skin like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. Like I’m something delicate, something sacred. Not a thing to be used, not a body to be broken.
I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of his gaze settle over me. He looks at me like I’m his salvation. Like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. I’m afraid I might be his ruin instead. “Theo,” I whisper, brushing his dark curls back from his face. His eyes are glassy, feverish with something I don’t know how to name.
I see the fractures in him, the way he’s unraveling at the seams. But when he kisses me, it’s different. There’s no force, no cruelty, no desperation. Just Theo.
His lips are soft, lingering against mine like he’s memorizing the shape of me. I feel his breath, the slight tremble in his body as he presses closer. He’s alwayswanted me, but not like this. I cup his face, my thumbs tracing the dark smudges beneath his eyes.
“Let me love you,” I whisper.
He freezes, his breath hitching. I can feel the war inside him, the hesitation, the fear. Theo doesn’t know what love is—not the kind that doesn’t hurt, the kind that doesn’t demand submission as proof.
But after a moment, he nods. I guide him down, my hands soft against his skin, my touch slow and unhurried. I press my lips to his forehead, to the sharp cut of his cheekbone, down the length of his throat. His pulse thrums beneath my mouth, wild and uneven.
