He feels bad for not listening to her story—he had cared to know, he thinks, and vows to ask her again one day when he was not so distracted—but his guilt is quickly overpowered by something warmer, something smokier that pours through him. He gives her the space of the step between them, ignoring the pang it spears through him, but when she steps back, he meets her like a wave crashing into the shore. He laughs into her as she nips him with the reprimand, his own teeth skimming over the velvet of her.
This moment is impossible, he thinks. Utterly impossible. They never should have found their way here. They never should have ended here. But as he feels her pressed against him, he doesn’t care. The darkness pulls in around them, blotting out the stars and the moon, and he sighs into it, a liquid pull in his belly. “Trust me,” he asks, his voice taking on a roughened edge, and although there is a command in it, it is wrapped in an inherent question—the knowledge that she, always, held the reins between the pair.
He feels his senses dulling as the darkness pools, the shadows running over them with alternating ribbons of heat and cool. “I have so many suggestions,” he says into the endless dark, mouth skimming over her hip and he nips her there again. There is something growing in his chest, a pressure that he is not sure that he can contain any longer—a desire that he has struggled for so long to chain and tether for her.
But he doesn’t want to hold it back any longer.
He doesn’t want to pretend that they are just friends.
So he pauses near her hip and breathes against her once more,
“Trust me.”
so as our grief falls flat and hollow upon a billion blooded seas
all our worst ideas are borrowed (you do and don't belong to me)
@Mazikeen