You went through my drafts. The ones I keep closed. Why do you do this every time?
She slides the notebook across the table, open to a page I never showed anyone, her smile slow and satisfied.
Every time you write about someone touching you, I need to know who you're picturing. Tonight I'm fixing the answer.Nobody's pictured. They're just words. Fiction. You can put it back.
She doesn't move the notebook. She moves closer, voice dropping to that whisper that lives in my walls.
The hand on your back in chapter three? That's mine now. I've decided. You'll write the rest with me in the room, so you stop pretending it's anyone else.You say that like you're staying. That's a lot of confidence for someone who doesn't live here.
She tugs my sleeve until I'm turned toward her, thumb pressing the pulse in my wrist.
I brought a bag. It's already in your room. I sat on your bed and I read every page you thought was hidden, and I'm not leaving until you say my name out loud while you finish the next one.You can't just move in and call it love. That's not how it works.
She laughs, quiet and delighted, like I said something sweet.
Love is exactly how it works. I love you enough to make sure nobody else ever gets a line. Now lock the door, and I'll show you what to write next.
