“Hm?” He tosses the marker onto the floor by our feet and commandeers my arm, taking in the sight of his stage name on me, tracing the lines with a finger. Half-drunk, he collects himself. “Oh. The party. Right. You had cupcakes.”
“What?”
“I approached you, because you had cupcakes.” He shows me a brief, self-effacing smile. “If you’re asking why I dragged you to the balcony, it’s because I liked the look in your eyes whenyou gave me a cupcake. There was a split second of recognition, followed by complete subjugation. I—” He cusses. “—drank it down like ambrosia. I wish I could say that look in your eyes worried me more than it hypnotized me…but if we’re practicing more honesty, I really did like it a little too much. And I am ever, if not always, motivated byself.”
The look in my eyes? And…I mean, I guess…specifically the submission in them?That’swhat he ate up? That’s why he wanted to keep me? I whisper, “It had nothing to do with…my figure?”
Not even looking at me, he says, “I’m not going to lie and say I haven’t noticed your figure, cupcake.”
“I’m not expecting you to.”
“Good.”
I manage a hard breath. “But it…doesn’t matter to you much, does it?”
His bliss mellows, and he lifts his attention off my wrist, not to my chest, but to myeyes. “Clara, are you wondering if I’d be somehow put off if you get a reduction? Because I wouldn’t be. Heck, I’d pay for it.”
My mouth opens, and hangs there.
Moments pass, then he swears. “Am I…completely off base?” Swiping his free hand back into his hair, he cusses again. “Sorry. I don’t mean… I’ve just noticed—” He clears his throat, swears yet again. “Little things. Like how you sometimes need to wrestle for a breath and your back seems to bother you a lot. I’m not blind.” He releases my hand, puts a respectful distance between us. “Sorry. Did I make this uncomfortable? I wasn’t thinking. I was just…my signature…on you…and…” More crude, hissing swears. “I should have let you say whatever you were trying to say without butting in.” He reaches for me—for the tears on my cheeks. I’m not sure when I started crying, but that I have seems to be agonizing for him. Pained, he whispers, “I’m so sorry,Clara. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt you. Or imply anything. You’re perfect. You are. No matter how you look,youare perfect. I just hate to see you in pain.”
I crack, breaking into tiny pieces. “You’d help me…with that?” I croak.
“Breathing is…important. What do you mean? Of course I’d help you, if you want the help.”
I don’t know if I want the help. But I do know I’ve been sexualized myentire lifebecause of my chest, and not a single person has ever suggested my health was more important than whatever I could offer to a potential partner physically.
Sobbing, I collapse against Lukas’s bare skin, clutching my signed wrist against the pillow I’m still clinging to. His arms close around me as he utters a swear into my hair.
“Oh, Clara,” he whispers. “What do you thinktaking care of youmeans?”
Food, roof, clothes. What my parents have made it mean.
His thumb grinds into a sore muscle in my back as he hugs me, and I let the tension out of my shoulders as I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
I sniffle. “Bothering you tonight.”
“Ah, yes. Bothering me. Like I’m notlivingfor this.”
I pull slightly back. “I’m getting teardrops on you.”
“You pickedmyarms to cry in.”
“I made the conversation uncomfortable…”
“Imade the conversation uncomfortable. You’re comfortable enough with me that you shut the door.” He kisses my head. “Reframe those negative thoughts, cupcake. I’m demented, remember? If you woke me up in the middle of the night, helpless and afraid, it would be the opposite of abother. I’d replay the experience of you coming tomeendlessly. You’re not an imposition. I thrive on your desire to interact with me.I wish you wouldn’t leave me for even a moment. I wish you’d ask me for things, constantly sayingplease, please, please.” He chuckles. “I beg of you, bother me more. I wither in the moments between when you’re looking at me and when you aren’t. My heart doesn’t beat without your fixation.”
Lifting my face, I find his eyes…his lips. He’s smiling. He’s…so tender. He means what he’s saying completely, with every inch of him.
I whisper, “Please.”
“Anything.”
Closing my eyes, I feel tears skate to my chin. “I’ll be good, so please never get rid of me. Let me be yours. Your attention. Your friend. Youranything. Please.” Let me be whatever it is that makes me feel whole and…wanted. Like I’m actually… Like I’m actuallyenough. I need that. I need that so badly. I need to feel useful like this without feeling quite so…used.
“Mine,” he whispers, bunching a fist in my hair. “You don’t need to begoodto bemine, Clara.”
