Page 18 of Misery
Since the moment I saw you painting in the middle of the night, tears streaming down your face.
Since I watched you rebuild yourself piece by piece.
Since I realized you were the strongest broken thing I'd ever seen.
"Long enough."
She sets down her glass. Turns to face me fully. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting tonight."
"Why?"
"Because you're scared and a little drunk and this isn't the time for us to talk about complicated things."
"When is?"
"When you're not running on adrenaline and wine. When you can think clearly about what you want."
"What if I know what I want?"
The air changes.
Charges.
She moves closer.
Close enough, I can feel her warmth.
"Elfe—"
"I'm not that drunk. Not that scared. I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?"
"No," she admits. "But I'm tired of being careful. Of being afraid. Of feeling like a victim. You make me feel something else."
"What?"
"Alive. Dangerous. Like maybe I'm not just something to be protected, but someone worth protecting."
"You are?—"
She kisses me.
Soft. Tentative. A question more than a statement.
Everything in me screams to take what she's offering.
To claim her mouth, her body, her soul.
Make her mine in every way that matters.
I've wanted this for months.
Dreamed about it.
Planned for it.
