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Our hearts are hammering against one another, our fingers weaving together, our lips desperate to share our darkest secrets and years of hurt and all the words we’re too afraid to share.
If someone asked me when we stopped kissing, I wouldn’t know. And this time, I don’t fear waking up to an empty bed or fear Damon running away from his feelings.
He didn’t need to admit he loved me; he could’ve held out a while longer.
But he did.
He loves me.
And even though we have many hurdles ahead of us, I know that I want to face life with him.
We fall asleep entangled around each other.
Nothing can separate us.
Not even my doubts and fears.
Not even our pasts.
Nothing.
Because love can sometimes be just as powerful.
The worst kind of déjà vu is the kind that has known pain.
The one that felt like acid dripping down your throat, contaminating every organ, including your heart.
That’s how I feel at four in the morning, when I wake up Damon from another of his gut-wrenching nightmares. Like the last time, he’s drenched in sweat, the spot on the sheet he left empty now completely soaked.
Like the last time, as soon as I woke him up, he went straight to the shower. Last time I followed him. I begged him to fuck me—and he did.
Except he said goodbye the next day.
And put an end to us before we ever had a chance.
So, I don’t follow him. I leave him be and give him his space.
I grab the pillow where he laid his head and hug it tightly, closing my eyes and trying a special kind of mental mantra to bring down my nerves.
He won’t leave now. Not after he told me he loves me.
I repeat it like a numbing lullaby, my fingers itching to grab a joint on the side of the table. I’ve opened the drawer and pulled out the plastic bag when Damon comes into the room in nothing but a towel around his waist, displaying his toned stomach.
“Don’t,” he warns me.
“It’s just a joint, Damon.”
He pushes his hair back. “You already had one this week. Keep your lungs clean. Please. For me.” I want to argue that Iwouldn’t feel the need for one if he didn’t run away from me every time we make a small measure of progress, but I refrain.
I have a feeling he’s worried everyone around him can die young, like Palmer. He’s right—they can, but one shouldn’t dwell on it.
We shouldn’t fear death. Death is probably the most painless, calmest, most beautiful experience anyone can go through. It’s leaving our loved ones behind that kills; the rest is truly finding peace in this dark, dark world.
Instead, I sweep over his hard length as he discards his towel. Even in the darkness, his beauty shines through.
He stares me down as he puts on a black pair of sweatpants. Then he comes over, removes the plastic bag from my hand, and snaps the night table drawer shut after tossing the joint inside.
I scoot to give him space on the bed after he smacks my bare ass. Maybe he’s not running away. Maybe he needs time to digest and acquaint himself with his demons before he faces me.
