“Why?” I cry, flinging my hands towards him.
“Because you’re my girl.”
“I’m not,” the words come out barely above a whisper, caught in my throat.
“Yes, you are. You always have been.”
“I’m not!” I yell, throwing the couch pillow at him. He snatches it out of the air easily. “I’m engaged!”
“I know!” He yells back, squeezing the discarded pillow in his hands.
“Then what do you want from me?” I beg him to answer as I break further.
“Anything you’ll give me.”
“Anything?” I ask condescendingly.
“You need a bodyguard? I’m here. You need a guy to fix your car? Done. I can build you a house, I can give you a tattoo. I know how to sew. I can play guitar. I don’t do a lot of cooking, but I’d learn if you never wanted to cook another meal.”
“Why?” I shrug in exasperation. “Why do you want to do any of that for me?”
“I taught myself how to do everything so I could be something to you someday. Even if it’s only a glimmer of what you need.”
“But why!” I beg this time, losing control of myself.
“Because I messed up! Is that what you want to hear? Will that make you feel better?”
I shake my head, not bothering to humor him with a response.
“I fucked up and lost the most important person in my life, and now I’m begging her to give me a crumb of forgiveness. I will be anything you need as long as you don’t shut me out.
“You need a ride home because you’re drunk or because you’re scared? I’ll break every traffic law to get to you. You need someone to fill your gas tank? I’ll make sure you never go below a quarter tank.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, and he just shrugs. “That’s ridiculous,” I say with more gusto, regaining control of my emotions.
The frustration feels better than the sorrow, and I focus on that as I pace back and forth in front of him, suddenly coming to a grinding halt.
“My feet hurt.” I spin facing him fully, and he sees the challenge on my face immediately.
He takes a step back, falling onto the couch,and patting his thigh.
I grit my teeth together because I’m not actually bold enough to let him touch my feet.
I keep pacing. Burning hotter with each lap back and forth. “What if I want you to be my little bitch boy, fetching me coffee and scrubbing my floors?”
“It’d be my pleasure.” His face is calm, not offended or put off by my suggestion. He’s not bluffing, and it only angers me further, but I’m not entirely sure why.
If you had asked me years ago, I would never have believed that he and I would be relatively strangers. But to equate our relationship to something as meaningless as a formal relationship, servitude even, it feels like a slap in the face.
My knee digs into the cushion right in front of his crotch, making him flinch slightly. But his eyes only darken when my hand grips the underside of his jaw, holding his face taut.
“And, what if I spit in your face and tell you to fuck off?” I threaten, leaning closer to him than I should. My entire body hovers over his, and even without touching, the static between us clings to my skin.
His face is stone, but his eyes tell a different story, wild to the brim with the Jensen that I know.
His head tips back a fraction, hooding those wild eyes ever so slightly, then his mouth opens…
Not a single word comes out as he stares at me…
