Doubts infest my mind. Restless energy won’t let me be. Even after a hot shower and climbing into bed in a soft pair of sweats and a T-shirt, I’m not calm. Can’t sleep.
Two hours of tossing and turning later, I’m just as awake as I’d been this morning.
I can’t stop thinking about her.
Elowyn talking back. Elowyn coming. Elowyn crying.
Dammit.
The sheets twist beneath my fists. My cock is hard and heavy between my legs.
Unable to take this another second longer, I climb out of bed and go to my main studio.
There, I gather my camera and throw the strap around my neck. I take a tube of red body paint and a wet washcloth with me as well.
As I head over to her bedroom, I’m thankful for the decision not to hang mirrors in the hallways.
Denying that my feelings for Elowyn go beyond hate is barely possible as it is. If I see them reflected at me, I might break. Might admit to what I keep buried.
Because… Jesus, she wasn’t supposed to be brave. Wasn’t supposed to be strong, to face me. To accept challenge after challenge.
The walls I built around me were never meant to crack the way the did.
When I’m outside Elowyn’s bedroom, I close my eyes, get it together.
Then open the door.
Unlike me, Elowyn’s fast asleep.
The silver moonlight filtering through the window and the thin spill of light from the hallway illuminate her. She lies on top of the covers, curled on her side. Her eyes are fluttered shut, eyelids heavy.
She’s completely oblivious to my presence. Stepping closer doesn’t wake her either.
Nor does my shadow when I come to a halt at the foot of her bed.
While she doesn’t stir, something in me does.
It happens when, up close, I can see she went to bed in the outfit I made her wear.
Elowyn chose to go to sleep with me.Me.
As the realization sinks in, warmth spreads through my chest. My heart beats differently, stripped of its usual rage and bitterness.
My temples throb, warning me that getting attached is a bad idea. A terrible fucking one since it’s not just my dick reacting to her.
Silencing the voice in my head, I start heading to the side of the bed. Closer to her beautiful face.
I need this. Need…I don’t know what.
I just do.
On my way there, a paper crinkles beneath my foot, stopping me in place.
Though I have an idea what it might be, I want to see it for myself. I put the items I brought with me on the bedside table and pick it up.
A Polaroid photo, as I guessed. A torn one.
Casting my gaze around the room, I spot dozens of shredded photos. Most of them are piled closer to the bathroom, as if—despite her fury—she planned to clear them out tomorrow.
