[ as unwise as it is, she turns to face him, slowly, so careful. her forehead only reaches his chin; she tilts her head up to look at him, half in despair, half in a dead-end sort of love with him she assumes just about everyone is. i'll be good. her throat burns hot with that plea.
a hand is still twisted behind her on the door knob, ready to flee. trouble is, it means his arm is more or less around her waist, too.
her mouth has become a desert in the midst of this exchange, the surge of hormones, the heat of the moment. perspiration starts to tickle the back of her neck, amplified by anxiety. she finds she has to wet her lips with her tongue before she can speak. ]
no subject
a hand is still twisted behind her on the door knob, ready to flee.
trouble is, it means his arm is more or less around her waist, too.
her mouth has become a desert in the midst of this exchange, the surge of hormones, the heat of the moment. perspiration starts to tickle the back of her neck, amplified by anxiety. she finds she has to wet her lips with her tongue before she can speak. ]
What if I can't be?