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But something has changed.

I think she's finally starting to believe you when you tell her that whatever this has become, you're actually thinking about your choices instead of blindly being pulled along by mine. She still doesn't like those choices, which is probably going to remain a problem between us for a while, but when you made another vague comment about the letters now being considerably less innocent than the first few, she shook her head and told you she was going to pretend she hadn't heard it.

You laughed.

She laughed.

And nobody cried or threatened to call the detective, and I'll take the fucking improvement.

You mentioned the Halloween event because she already knows you love the damn thing and probably would have gone anyway, but you didn't tell her you're going there knowing I'll be looking for you. And when she asked if you wanted company you politely said no and reminded her that she never liked it.

I'm glad.

Not because I want you lying to her for me. You know by now I'd rather deal with her glaring at me for the rest of my natural life than watch you lose her because of this.

I'm glad because I want tomorrow night to belong to us before anybody else starts standing between us trying to work out what it means.

Fuck, sweetheart.

Us.

I keep wanting to write things like that now. I'm getting worse.

You tried the dress on again when you got home.

Only for a few minutes this time because you were careful with it, smoothing the fabric before you stepped into it. You fastened it, stood in front of the mirror and put the velvet mask on with it, and then you added the lipstick.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You looked at yourself and smiled.

Two days ago you were pinching at the waist of that dress and turning sideways because you were determined to find something wrong with the body inside it. Tonight you put it on, looked in the mirror and actually seemed to enjoy what you saw before you carefully took everything off again and hung the dress where nothing could touch it.

You didn't wear it long enough to do anything filthy and that's probably sensible.

I have considerably less interest in being sensible, and a lot more interest in making you filthy. And I have spent the entire fucking evening wondering what you're going to let me do when I finally get close enough.

Will you let me touch you? Actually touch you this time. Not your ankle through a blanket while you sleep. Not your hair because I promised that was all I'd take. I mean standing in front of you while you're awake and you know exactly who has his hands on you.

Will you let me put them on your waist? I've imagined that enough that I already know I'm going to have trouble behaving normally if you do.

Will you let me pull you close enough that I can feel you breathing?

Will you touch me back?

Fuck, sweetheart. I've spent months stealing closeness from you and then one night sitting beside your bed because you finally gave me a little piece willingly, and now all I can think about is what your hands are going to feel like when you're awake enough to decide where you want them.

My shirt. My shoulders. Around the back of my neck. Maybe lower if you decide you're done being polite.

And are you going to kiss me?

I've been obsessed with your mouth since I first saw you, sweetheart. Before the masks and before the dress and before I knew you were ever going to let me close enough, I was already wondering what it would feel like to kiss that mouth after you said something filthy.

Tomorrow I might actually find out. Do you understand how badly that is fucking with me?

Will you let me kiss you slowly the first time, or are you going to grab me and make every patient little fantasy I've had completely pointless?

Will you laugh against my mouth when I inevitably do something that earns an insult? I told you in the first letter that I'd wondered what your laugh would feel like that close, and I still want to know.