bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
She is infuriating. Impossible. He feels a sharp sting of rejection as she refuses his offering and he lets it sink back into his chest, absorbing the light of it so that he nearly glows for a moment before it fades, settling back into place amongst the fibers of his being. His face is stern as he watches her, guarded against the confusing storm of emotions that thunder in his chest, swirling dangerously below the surface.
But she doesn't leave and neither does he.
Instead they remain locked in this stand-off, neither willing to give an inch.
When she speaks again, a corner of his mouth twitches and he feels a dangerous flare of hope. He takes a small step forward, a glint in his eye, closing the distance between them as she continues to talk. There is something like amusement that begins to brighten his features, calming the intense edge as he takes another small step, feeling the heat nearly radiating off of her, his hands itching by his sides.
When she’s done, a corner of his mouth tilts upward. “I don’t even own a house,” he deadpans, thinking back to his loft somewhere in the city. It was a place to live. Not a home. Mostly covered with scientific journals and little else. “So I have little need of a housewife.” Another step so that he can practically feel her breath, his pulse thudding, the maddening desire to grab and pull her close barely stifled.
“I don’t like sharing,” a muscle jumps in jaw at the very thought, “so I don’t mind not being shared.” He has little attention for anything outside of his own realm. Zero desire to pursue anything outside of what he already considered his own world. His head dips down a little, leaving space between them but fighting to maintain it. “And I would expect nothing less from you.” He holds her gaze, focusing on keeping his breathing even, his hands by his sides clenching and unclenching.
“As long as I can be second.”
There’s a stretch of quiet between them, the snow once again muffled as he draws the bubble around them closed, the world muting so that it’s just the two of them and the sound of their breaths.
One hand reaches out against the wall and he leans slightly over her, waiting.
“The ball is in your court, Wallace.”
He echoes the same words from earlier, from another lifetime ago.
“So what do you want to do about it?”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
