and all of us, we’re meant for the fire, but we keep rising up and walking the wires
There is part of her that wants to return the words. That wants to whisper the truth of it back into him, giving him the most precious of gifts—be damned whether it ruins her. She wants to unravel before him, losing all sense of control, following him down the path of the unknown. She wants to light on fire for him, show him the weakest parts of her, the parts that she doesn't even visit often—the parts she doesn’t dare trail her fingers down, where she doesn’t dare put pressure against the joints most prone to buckling.
So, even though the words are there, tripping over her tongue, just begging to be said,
(I’m yours too.)
they remain clogged in her throat.
It instead becomes a soft hum, a murmur, a light groan against the back of her teeth.
It becomes something she shows instead of says because the words have too much power and she’s not willing to fall beneath its weight just yet. It becomes the way she curves to him, heavy-lidded and soft where she is usually all angles, all anger, all furious cold. It becomes the way she presses her lips to to chest, trailing up the masculine curve of his neck, lingering on his jaw, teeth testing the flesh there.
She no longer has words to show him the passionate shattering in her breast, the fears lost in the fog.
All she has is this—here and now—this impossible moment where he has finally made his way behind her defenses. She almost chokes when she finds his gaze, almost remembers the danger there, but she doesn’t back away, doesn’t try to leave. She just nods slowly, pressing her cheek to his and then moving closer into him until they stand chest to chest and she can lose herself in trailing patterns down his broad back.
lynx