⛓ • we'll never have sex ;; peter ballard ;; ❤︎

six

Your alarm goes off, and you bristle slightly. But you don't make any move to get up nor turn it off. However, Peter's baby blues flutter open, and he hums. The sound is rich, and it makes your gut twist pleasantly at the memory of the night before.

Peter is hunched over you, completely entangling you in his limbs. His hair is brushing your cheek as he lays his head on your shoulder, and his arms are wrapped around you snuggly. It's comforting, tight and homey. You imagine this is what the romance movies portray, though, you haven't watched any in such a long time.

You're overwhelmed with emotion, as he presses kisses to the side of your neck. It's sweet, and it makes you openly giggle and smile. You feel like cinder, set alight by his heat alone. The passion shared between you two could never change, you believe so but deep down in the pits of your stomach, uncertainty lies.

Waiting to be awoken by the harm his hands do bring to you, but you let the sweet moment you two share last. And despite this man having all you will ever need, in good consciousness, you realize you cannot live in his embrace. You cannot lay in his heat forever. Settled between his arms, and filled with passion that will die far too quick.

You breathe in love, and breathe out heartbreak when he slowly draws his limbs away from yours. You want to call out, to pull him back into you. But you keep your head, still, alone, waiting. For what? You are not sure, but you watch. Quietly, as he pulls on his clothes as if you were some measly one night stand.

And you're almost prepared for him to slap a 20 on your nightstand, say thank you for the night and leave you there. Heartbroken, lonely, exhausted. Your limbs ache with the familiar feeling of being sore, and your heart throbs.

You recognize this feeling, you've felt it one too many times before. It's anguish and grief. And your woe is something from the pages of a book, it's dramatic and confusing. It has you reeling, pulling into him but then pushing away in trepidation.

You don't think, sometimes you believe you never do. Perhaps if you were thinking, your heart wouldn't be wrenching in your chest. Beating so slowly you're afraid it'll stop, and at the same token, you wish it would.

You wish the drumming, the rhythm of every time your heart hits against your ribs, would come to an abrupt but expected stop. Leaving you breathless, lifeless, and having so much blood in your veins. So much that's not useful anymore.

You turn over, your back facing the man now clad in all white and looking into your mirror as if he owns it. You don't need to look, you know him already. You know he's combing through his locks with his fingers, ready to leave you to get dressed alone.

You will have to drag yourself to the shower, your legs shaking and bites of pain striking you with every step. You will have to dress yourself, eat and take care of yourself because the man you're so hopelessly enamored with, proves he cannot.

He does not know how, he could tame a beast but not love it. Some would say love is a weakness, but deep down you know it's a strength. You do things out of love, you live off the feeling. Living for someone else, as you do not want to live for yourself anymore.

It's quiet, a silent agony that you wish not to break. Peter does not say goodbye, he does not kiss you farewell or say any sweet words. He simply sits in front of you, pulling on his oxfords before standing. Straight as an arrow, and you wonder if it ever hurts. Standing so unnaturally straight it looks as if his spine may snap.

And then he walks out of your room, not uttering a word. You wonder perhaps if this is your fault, you let yourself live in the thought of a heated passion only to be left with ash. You don't know if this time you want to rekindle the flame, start anew with him. Again.