But now I’m empty.
I didn’t think it would feel like this. These months — this whole fucked up arrangement — I expected pain. Instead, I felt cherished. Wanted. Maybe evenloved.
That voice of warning in my head? The one that used to scream at me to be careful? It went quiet a long time ago.
He hasn’t hurt me. Not once. He only gave me warmth. Safety. Music.
He’s been playing the violin more and more for me. Sometimes I surprise myself by humming along under mybreath. Quietly, a sound that’s almost not there. And the way he looks at me when I do — like I’m breathing life back into him — it makes me want to never stop.
His music. His mouth. His arms around me in the middle of the night…
God, I’ll miss it.
I’ll miss him.
I’ve been trying so fucking hard to keep my guard up. To remember why I can’t fall again. But it’s almost impossible when all I want is to drown in him, just like I did when I was nineteen.
I’m not even moving today. Not getting up from this bed. I’ll just wait for him to come, glare at me, point at the door and tell me to get the hell out.
A sudden click echoes in the hallway — the front door. It cuts straight through my thoughts. He’s back,. My heart stumbles, but I stay still, eyes locked on the ceiling, frozen.
I wait with bated breath. The bedroom door opens.
Still, I don’t move.
The mattress dips under his weight, and then, he’s over me, crawling. Slow. Intentional.
His hand cups my cheek, tilting my face upward. He’s smiling. He presses a long, tender kiss to my lips, slow and devastating.
“Hello, adorable,” he whispers against my mouth.
“Hello, Dominic,” I breathe back.
His hands move to undress me. Gentle. Careful, like he wants to savor every second.
Is this it? Is this our goodbye? Is he going to break me one last time, softly?
I don’t know, but I let him. And I pray, silently, that this isn’t the end. That maybe... just maybe… he wants more, too.
12. Wish
Ghost
She didn’t say anything, and neither did I. The five-month mark came and went — quietly, no conversation.
I was supposed to end it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I kept telling myself that I’d do it, that I’d keep the line clear and cold. Surgical. But the truth is that I need more fucking time. I need more of her.
And that’s how one more day became three. Then a week. Then a month. And now it’s been eight months since we stood in front of that goddamn Justice of the Peace with two strangers and a loaded silence between us.
She’s outside now, by the lake behind the cabin, throwing rocks at the water. Barefoot, hair wild from the wind. And I’m watching her like I’ve never had her at all. Starving for every little thing she’s willing to give me.
I don’t know how or when she did it, but she brought a flame back into my life that I thought had been snuffed out forever.
When she touches me, I burn. When she smiles at me, the world fades away — everything except her. Even when she’s scolding me for something stupid — like forgetting to take out the trash, of all things — all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss her.
I thought this whole thing would patch something inside me, maybe stitch a few cracks. Instead, I feel more broken than I’ve ever been. And somehow, more whole than I ever thought possible.
I’m fucking lost in her. Again. I shouldn’t be. I can’t afford to be. She’s dangerous, like a noose woven from silk, soft until it tightens and breaks your neck.
