𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊

𝟏𝟖 | 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐄

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 so serenely?

How does she sleep so attractively? So beautifully?

My mind whirrs, the cogs in my brain continuously ticking and turning, no matter how many cups of alcohol I toss down the hatch as I watch Aeron sleep. Her hand is tucked under the pillow, her right leg sprawled out and cuddling the blanket between her left—her bare toes are vibrant in the moonlight leaking into my—her room.

She drools lightly, her mouth ajar.

Her white hair is spilled invisible ink against the duskiness of the sheets I'd chosen for her room while she dozes underneath the four walls of my domain. I shouldn't let myself believe that she can sleep without fraught when I witnessed her nightmare a month ago, but I cannot help but envy the way she mumbles in her sleep and tosses over, sighing happily.

The glass of Scotch I brought is melting in my hand.

The cravings in my brain are dulled by the sight of her.

My fingers tremble as I place the glass down on the bureau and stand up. Slowly, keeping my socks light on the floor, I move toward the bed. Aeron faces the door, her eyelids fluttering in rapid-eye-movement sleep, and I can tell that she's dreaming.

I allow myself a moment of weakness as I take advantage of the gap between her slumbering body and the edge of the mattress. I sit beside her, my fingers still wet and cooling from the drink, but still rising to the edge of her face. I lament as I run them through her straight hair, as I feel her respire against my skin, so lightly, but so deeply.

You don't want my body.

You don't want my hand in marriage.

I close my eyes and let her words trouble me.

I let this happen—I'm the one who convinced her that I hate her enough for her to only see me as another man who wants her superficially, but the truth is, I just want to give her time.

I want Aeron more than I want to breathe, but I want her to want me, too.

My words are excuses.

My actions are inexcusable.

I am a walking contradiction when it comes to her because she has this insane ability to crawl under my skin, to live inside of me, to haunt me and ghost me, and extract things I've let die and be buried inside my chest.

I wanted to kiss her tonight.

I wanted to remind her what could be hers.

Instead, I played mind games with her—I played another shot at the back-and-forth banter I'd given her because I knew that her intuition was telling her to run away from me when all I really want her to do is to stare me directly in the eye and remember.