"The Love Letter" by Jan Vermeer (c. 1669-1670), stolen 1971, recovered 1971 - value unknown (disputed, but highly valuable)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I'd always admired an artist's willingness to give their all; to bare on canvas what couldn't be said with lips and tongue. I admired the power of paint, when strokes of a brush could take the role of ink on pages, painstakingly illustrating entire stories readable through shading and hues.

But I'd always admired how much could be said with one single touch, too.

I admired what legacies I could leave with fingertips. What oaths I could swear on lips. What maps I could illustrate with palms on hips. I cherished the stories I could tell with hands on backs, tongues on necks, and fingers in hair. There was so much I couldn't explain in words, but there was plenty I could touch, and so much I could worship. Even the things that couldn't be conveyed with either, unexplainable by both words and touches, were discarded in those moments. They were lost in every kiss, buried in every blush, and drowned in every heartbeat. Tucked away for later, and forgotten with every touch.

When Simon and I had strained the clock as much as we could, and crossed all the lines we dared to cross within the confines of that room, it was time to leave.

Simon left first.

He exited the room with his collar straight, his hair pushed back, and his eyes bright. His lips were red. Beautiful, crimson red, like poppies and anthurium from my aunt's garden. I knew that underneath shell buttons, his chest and throat were red, too. Corruption had never looked as good as it had tonight.

I stayed in the office a few minutes more. I ran my fingers through the tangles in my hair, hurriedly removed any smudges of makeup, and fixed my dress. I fixed Yolanda's desk, too. Things had gotten a little... out of hand. Then, I reached for the metaphorical mask I'd let half-slip with Simon; I pressed it against kiss-burnt skin, welding it back on so I could innocently return to the fray. Except, heaven help me, there was nothing innocent about any of my time at Whitehill. There was nothing innocent about the way I'd marked Simon's time with these inky hands of mine, or altered these halls for him. There was nothing innocent about what we'd done, or what I hoped to do again. No, there was no doubt in my mind.

Something had so irreversibly changed.

Maybe it was the way his hand had clenched around mine, interlocked like ivy when he'd peeked around the door to the hallway. Or the way his hold had slowly given way, fingers trailing my wrist, as if tracing rivulets on a map when he'd finally slipped out. Maybe it was the way he'd looked back, throat bobbing with words unsaid, or the look in his eyes when they'd taken me in again. The way he'd guiltily disappeared, torn from my arms by duty, but wanting to stay.

Maybe, I thought, it was how I saw it all.

How he was swamped by guilt for leaving, for returning to battle, for waging war when he only wanted to surrender to me. How he was flushed and warm to the touch because of us and my hold; his tongue coated with poison from the most vibrant flowers that'd bloomed between us. How beautiful he'd looked, and how he'd glowed whenever his name had left my lips; a different kind of poison for me.

Maybe it was the promise he'd dared to speak, when he'd told me we'd reunite later, after the hard parts were over, and the need for pretending was laid to rest. How he'd given his all to me. How I couldn't get enough, so I'd accepted what was offered and more.

I didn't know.

But there was something taken from Whitehill that night—something only I had. Something I'd never truly expected to give, or lose; something like the Widow. Its loss was dangerous, impactful, and risky. In a way few knew, it was so very right. Yet, it was also different; this loss wasn't coordinated, or planned, or masterful like the Widow's disappearance. It was blindsiding. I'd never expected to give Simon Gastapolous these shards of myself; the pieces of which I'd only just started to collect from their fallen place on the ground.

No, I hadn't expected any of this.

My heart was in my throat. My dignity was steam on the glass. My mouth was full of bitten-back promises, and my lips were swollen with passion, a side effect of the fever we'd lost ourselves in. The delirium still clogged my senses—but I couldn't dwell on it any longer. I couldn't stay in that office anymore. I had a party to return to. A crowd to part. A sobriety to tarnish. A society to corrupt.

So I left. I didn't look back at the office I'd abandoned another piece of myself in.

At first, when I slithered back into the foyer, I wasn't sure if anyone had noticed my disappearance. I wouldn't be surprised if they had; I'd slipped away like the thief I was rumored to be. To my equal parts dismay and relief, it didn't take long to determine. Based on the glances that swung my way, I confirmed some knew I'd been gone a little too long. For the life of me, I realized, I couldn't find it in me to care. There was no need for them to be concerned; nothing else would be taken from Whitehill.

Ignoring the scorning suspicion, I searched the crowd again. I found August, still wrapped around Lena as they swayed to the music, and Carrie, still twirling her boyfriend around the dance floor.

And I found Geraldine.

I hadn't spoken to her yet. I'd avoided it as long as I could.

She stood to the side, which surprised me. It made me slow my steps. She was usually the center, the heartbeat, the crown jewel. Yet, tonight, it seemed she'd shooed away her posse of admirers. She'd found a perch where she could watch the dancers, who stepped and twirled to the orchestra's guidance, where even her son and daughter-in-law were on the dance floor with polished smiles.

For a moment, I paused, and looked at the woman I idolized.

I looked at the woman who'd brought me into a world I loved, a world I'd thrived in, and a world I'd done so much damage to. I could never thank her enough, or say enough words. I could never voice how much it'd meant to me, or how much it'd shaped who I was; I could never bestow words on how much it'd ruined me.

I'd found a home at Whitehill. Then I'd lost it, and it'd become another broken home for me to run from. I'd found a purpose, then I'd relinquished it under pressure, fingers bent and blue. I'd had a place to call mine—then I'd etched another's name. I'd packed my things like it was never meant to be anything more than temporary.

Geraldine had never done that.

Geraldine was proud.

I wished I was, too.

From the frayed edges, I observed how the heart pulsed. Geraldine was watching the room the same way an owl overlooked their patch of woods: curious and withdrawn, seeing everything, knowing everything, but voicing nothing. It was time for me to pay my respects. I summoned my courage, my manners, and my mask. With a skill I'd turned instinct, I gracefully joined her side.

"Geraldine," I greeted strongly. "Thank you for inviting me tonight. The party is lovely."

It sounded phony in its politeness. It wasn't what used to be said, but then again, we weren't who we used to be.

At my words, the luminous eyes of the Great Horned turned to evaluate the insignificant jackdaw beside her. If she was surprised, she didn't show it. She turned back to watch the orchestra's spell over the room, not a ruffle to be seen.

"I'm glad you got my gift," she replied. "It looks good on you—like you were meant to wear it."

My hand instinctually went to my throat. The diamonds laid above my pulse, highlighted by the sapphires sparkling amongst them; a collar to show where my loyalty laid. Garnished with her signature blues, and showing her clear hand in the design, the piece staked a claim for others to see—regardless of whether it was still true or not. Geraldine's gift was a beacon of brilliance.

I meekly gazed at her, my hand still covering the riches she'd given me. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

"Of course."

I was able to stand beside Geraldine a little easier than I had in the past few months. The burden on my shoulders was lighter. The shame was covered in ash, hidden under floorboards, and buried in quicksand. But even now, my heart was heavy for her. I didn't know how deep her grief still ran for the Widow, for the gift her dead husband had given her as one of his final presents. Nor did I know how much she believed the words spoken both inside and out of this empire's walls, or how much she knew.

All I knew was that it was gone.

I'd said it to her before. I'd say it again. I'd say it every time I was able. This time, new meaning would be attached to the words, and old ones would be shed like scales that didn't fit. I let my hand drop from my neck.

"I'm sorry, Geraldine."

We stood for a moment, watching the crowd. The sea of partygoers was lively and predictable, groups of guests clustered like seas of fish, blindly following the rest. The eerily dangerous orcas of the wealthy, the chittering dolphins of influencers, the keen octopi of camouflaged press. It was a dangerous place, both to those who belonged, and those who didn't. 'Eat or be eaten' was extended across every branch of nature. Especially here, with gold inlaid in teeth and diamonds in tongues.

"Me too, Eleanor."

I startled at her response, having already concluded she wouldn't provide one. But when she looked over, her gaze was as layered as my apology, and she repeated herself. "Me too."

Then, before I knew it, the matriarch, the almighty widow of Whitehill, was gone. She left me alone. I stood watching the dancers, my body swaying to the music's pulse as she disappeared deeper into the castle—both of us knowing I wasn't coming back.

After that, the night was short. My group left while the highs were still high, the wounds were still minimal, and the mistakes were still slight. We departed to the speakeasy we'd planned to visit, and we got drunker than we should've. It was glorious. It was the wild celebration after the war, because while we'd suffered losses, we'd overall been victorious. Truthfully, it was the freest I'd felt in months. The guilt was lighter, the dread was diminished, and the drinks were stronger. It wasn't like the last time we'd gone out drinking; this time it was planned and purposefully exuberant.

When Simon appeared at the speakeasy, I knew the museum was empty. I knew that party was over, that the museum had secured the funds they'd wanted, and that the night was half-over. But I also knew this party was just beginning. I ignored August's grimace when he saw him, Lena's squeal of knowing, and Carrie's burning gaze of indecision. My friends faded in the crowd as I welcomed him with a smile, and reached for his hand, giddy when I saw his fingers already open.

"You made it!"

I wrapped my hand around his. I was grinning up at him, unapologetically tipsy. Although, I wasn't sure if it was the alcohol causing the glow in my chest or the knowing looks of all around us—or if it was entirely him. He was sweeter and more intoxicating than any wine I could drink.

"I did," Simon responded, eyes darting around the room in caution. His grip tightened. "Are you sure—"

"I don't care what they say as long as you don't," I confessed, interrupting him. His questioning eyes settled on mine. "You're the one with the most to lose here, Simon."

That title used to be mine, like everything else. Not anymore. It's yours now.

I'd been so afraid of hurting others around me by proximity, but my circle had refused to break. Despite months of upheaval, they'd only drawn in tighter, huddling like shields when the arrows rained down. I'd spent so much time tormented by guilt for choices that weren't only mine to agonize over. I'd become riddled with holes by the boring teeth of anxious nerves. Maybe, now, it was time to let the people around me make their own decisions. Because more than anything else, tonight had taught me how little I cared for my own reputation, and how little the cost of it mattered to my friends. I knew they were still embroiled in the politics. They still had things to lose. I'd panicked for them over every step they'd taken towards me—but they never had. They'd never faltered.

I'd chased them off as much as I could. Or I'd tried to, at least. But they'd stayed. All this time, they'd stayed, and I was tired of running. So while I knew I couldn't be the one to risk it for them, because Bonheur as my witness, I'd never risk them—it wasn't my choice. It was theirs.

It'd always been theirs.

Just like it was Simon's decision to make now. Simon was the one with the business to run; the one leading a company that'd finally found its footing again. It was Simon who sheltered a delicate bloom of respect, a fresh sprout he'd earned among an unforgiving winter of doubt—it wasn't me. I'd already lost control of my own narrative. I was furious at what I'd lost, but I didn't feel the need to protect what was left. Simon, I knew, was different. For Simon, he'd succeeded where I'd failed. I'd lost the reins completely, but he'd forced the craze into submission and regained stability. It was up to him to decide how much he was willing to risk of what he'd rebuilt. To decide how things would continue, and how public it'd be if we did.

I'd made my choice. I wasn't sure what else I had to lose, anyway. I wasn't risking much.

Besides, I don't think I have as much control over my own fate as I think I do.

Simon's eyes searched mine, and I could see the scales he was loading. The risks he was weighing. Some things looked different outside of closed doors, and this was one of them. Maybe it wasn't meant to be exposed, fragile under light and the harsh winds of gossip. Maybe I had expectations he didn't, and I'd laid too many cards down. Maybe it was a one-time dollop of pleasure, a singular fall into temptation, and this was all for naught. I didn't know. There was plenty up in the air, and more was appearing the longer I thought about it.

I wondered which way he'd tip. I wondered how the dice would fall. Yet, the fact his hand hadn't left mine was a purr of comfort in my ear.

If I was truthful to myself, I knew I'd understand whatever choice he made. If we hid, if we stopped, if he left—and yet, something inside me was begging, beseeching, groveling for his touch. Desperate to feel him again, to hold him again, to be held in spite of it all.

Pleading for more, even as I apologized for it.

He opened his mouth to speak, but as if the room sucked in its breath, the crowd drew in tighter. A shoulder bumped mine. I stumbled forward, lights a blur and heels mincing the floor. Simon reached to steady me. His hand curled around my hip, warm fingers brushed my back, and his chest became flush with mine.

I'd already touched him once, but damn. Every touch was as intoxicating as the first.

Every touch, every moment, and every look felt as thrilling and adrenaline-spiking as it'd been in the soft lamplight of my former office. My body was just as responsive, my lips were just as dry, and my hands were just as desperate. I needed him. I needed him to soothe the ache in my lungs when air couldn't. Whatever that looked like, whatever it was, whatever would help—I needed it.

"Simon," I called. I went up to my tiptoes to bring my face closer to his.

He was watching me, eyes flicking down to my lips as I stopped a breath away from his parted ones. My hands reached up to his neck; fingers dipped into his soft almost-curls, and my thumb stroked his skin.

He swallowed.

His voice was unsteady. "Eleanor—"

"Like I said, I won't make you any promises," I interrupted. "I won't say I'm a good idea, or that I'm worth it."

His expression rippled, brows starting to draw together. I noticed, and shook my head, leaning closer. "Simon, I can't say anything about tomorrow, or yesterday, or anything at all but right now. If you walk away, I'll understand," I promised. "If you want, you'll never see me again after tonight. I swear. I do. I wouldn't blame you if you go. And if you want to keep it a secret, I'll understand that, too."

My heartbeat was the loudest sound in the room for a few seconds; the chaos around us faded into the background as my words hung in the air.

Then I leaned even further, cheek brushing his. My lips hovered near his ear; my voice was a whisper, my heart was a firework. My words were an offer.

"But if you stay... if this is more than what it already was, more than just tonight..."

He tensed.

"I think you'll find some art is meant to be touched," I finished. A gentle kiss clung to my lips as it longed for his acceptance.

His fingers tightened where they held me close. When I pulled back, I glimpsed a blaze I wanted to consume me in his gaze. I saw him feed the fire, even as he drew the line to stop the spread, attempting to hold it back from devouring us whole. For a moment, he was speechless.

"You've been drinking," he finally murmured, pupils blown. I observed the hunger he swallowed and his acceptance at the realization, and the build-up I'd enjoy as soon as he let me. "I think I'll save my response for when you'll remember it."

I looked up, still being held in his arms, and realized which way the scales had tipped. He might be saving his response, but he wasn't withholding his answer. He wasn't shying away.

I nodded. My smile was wide, and my euphoria was wider.

Truthfully, he was overestimating my level of intoxication; I was only tipsy. I hadn't had enough for my mind to fully ignore the pestering of my anxieties and doubt.

Please be sure. Please understand. Please don't agree if even a freckle of doubt marks your mind.

I felt obligated to remind him before we went too far, before we ventured outside of closed doors. I was compelled to hammer in his choice, to test its strength before I laid too much down.

What else should you know?

The list of warnings was a tangled ball of strings in my mind. I grabbed one at random, and pulled.

"The media might call you a boytoy. Or a pawn," I blurted.

I immediately blushed under his gaze. That wasn't quite how I'd intended to word it, but it seemed my tongue was less easily controlled when I drank; a fact I forgot every time.

To my relief, Simon's response was playful. He seemed amused, and his lips curled—even as his eyes still held the burning look I'd come to know earlier in the night. "Oh? Am I only one of many?"

I shook my head. The room tilted, but the rest of my life was skewed, too. I was used to it.

"I've never had any boytoys," I informed seriously. "Just people I care for. And not the way you're thinking! Keep your mind out of the gutter."

His eyes twinkled, his mouth grinned, and my stomach clenched.

"I bet you don't even remember all of them," he teased.

Oh, but I do.

I remembered all of them, and there weren't as many as he might've thought. I knew labels said people like me wore and discarded others like last season's clothes; I knew stereotypes swore I couldn't feel the weight of care like others did, too accustomed to the weight of gold instead.

But that wasn't true. I remembered all of them.

I remembered Nathaniel, the freckled boy with wide eyes and big ears, who'd given me the four-leaf clover he'd found at summer camp. I could recall how red had crept between the speckled spots on his cheeks, colors bright when I'd thrown my arms around him, and how his laugh was the sound of joy. I remembered Walter, the poet I'd kissed a little too deeply when I still believed in fairytales between school bells; chasing dawns when youth was forever, but slipping away, all at once. I remembered Roman, who'd shown me the rise and fall of freedom; who'd brought me to the other side of the world, the one I'd only heard of from behind my pearly gates, but had left me there. And I remembered August. I remembered every boy and every man I'd ever loved. Every childhood crush, every best friend, every love, platonic or romantic. I remembered them all.

And I would remember Simon.

I leaned in, finding Simon's mouth with mine. He exhaled, tension leaching out as I pressed him against me. Like before, he met my fervor with his own. I could feel my pulse in my fingers, behind my ribcage, and in the lips I couldn't get close enough to him. I felt his rhythm too, erratic beneath my hands where they held him steady.

He was the one who retreated this time. He was the one who pulled us back when our toes crept over the edge, when we leaned too far to stare at the jump below. His eyes were closed, and he panted for the air I'd stolen from him, though neither of us were letting go.

I had even more reason to celebrate now. More than the victory I'd ripped from the jaws of pythons, more than the survival I'd earned through vicious tidal waves, more than the soul-crushing loneliness I'd held my own against. I had him, and these metamorphic moments I changed in, to celebrate.

I pulled away. I felt his touch cling to me like fog that couldn't bear to relinquish adventurers. I felt my body tingle, as if cold when no longer embraced by his warmth, when I took steps back and turned. I felt his guarding eyes follow me while I crossed the short distance to the bar and leaned over, grabbing a bottle. I felt happiness smother everything else, at least for the night.

Quickly, I winked at the bartender, tossed one of my parent's credit cards in his direction, and returned to Simon with my loot.

When he saw the bottle, he chuckled. His smirk was insistent on his handsome face as he shook his head. "If you keep going, you won't remember this tomorrow," he warned.

I giggled, but I knew I would. I'd remember it all. The laughs, the smiles, the look in his eyes. He hadn't had a sip of alcohol, but he had a look scrawled from iris to pupil; a look that thrilled a waywardly yearning heart like mine.

Oh, boy, I've done it again.

Crushed like clover, twisted like ivy, thorned like holly. He'd brought me to his gardens, and the air was heavy with perfume, and my sleeves were heavy with sap. I was running with shouts of glee; voyaging through the lush oasis he'd introduced me to, going deeper and deeper. There was something intoxicating about being looked at like that. It spun me higher than alcohol ever could. It was a look of recklessness, of freedom, of offered comfort I'd bloody others to keep. His look was born of fiction, a myth that shouldn't exist, yet scintillating in his eyes.

I couldn't feel the guilt, or the warnings, or the rationality that begged me to listen to logic. Those were gone. I could only hear Simon, his heart pounding as fast as mine when I laid my head on his chest.

Shit, maybe I am drunk.

"Eleanor!"

August's voice had a bad habit. It liked to ring above a crowd like a crow warbling my name, accusing without the base of an accusation.

He abruptly appeared, as if carried by wings, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. He looked like his younger self when he drank. Based on pictures I'd seen, and various commissioned portraits in Geraldine's home, I knew he really had been the golden cherub baby his mother still cooed about to strangers. If anyone got smooched with pink after drinking, rosy and flushed, it was August.

He had Lena in tow, their hands firmly interlocked. She looked just as peony-posing.

"There you are!" he scolded. "We've been looking everywhere for you."

"I was with Simon."

"You look as drunk as I am!" Lena hiccupped, beaming from ear to ear.

Was I really that intoxicated? Had I had too much to sip on in the pools of attention? Had I bathed too far in the lagoons of lust?

I hadn't a clue in the world. But I was floating, so high I had to lean down to see the men around me. I realized they still eyed each other with distrust. I blinked, looking between them.

"Simon," August acknowledged.

"August," Simon coolly responded back.

"Right, well, I think we're ready to leave," Lena called over the crowd.

"Let's get out of here," I agreed. My eyes darted, bouncing from precious metal to precious stone, and back again.

August scrutinized Simon when he moved to slide behind me. I felt Simon nod against my shoulder, nestled in place to follow me out behind the group. I bit my smile down. He made me whimsical in the best possible way—but he made August grumpy.

August pressed his lips into a thin line, looking like an uncertain Cupid with maroon cheeks and a hesitant glare, then turned. He led us through the crowd, striding through to carve a path. He didn't release his grip on Lena; not that she'd let him, she was clinging to his hand as tightly as he clasped hers. The sober Eleanor took notes, and the drunk one cackled with glee.

Our group parted ways in the parking lot. August was going to protest when Simon led me towards his Jeep, but Lena intervened, lacing her fingers with his to pull him towards the car waiting for them. But before they tumbled into the back seat, August paused, glancing between me and Simon again. His gaze latched onto me. He was regarding me seriously, his eyes seeming stone sober despite the haze I was sure he also waded through.

With an unsure grimace, August seemed to confirm something to himself. He turned to Simon.

"Your time at Whitehill is almost over," he said.

Simon nodded. His expression was resigned, and his hand tightened on mine. He didn't have an answer.

August didn't need one. His words were gruff and begrudging. "Your team has done well," he said.

Simon nodded slowly. "We appreciate that."

Simon was still stiff. His posture was rim-rod straight and his shoulders were squared. I squeezed his hand. "Whatever we can do to help," Simon added.

August was quiet for a moment, still eyeing the man I'd wrapped myself around. August was the brother I'd never had, the angel I'd always needed, and the conspirator I'd always wanted. Maybe that was why he set aside his misgivings. He knew me. He knew how I looked at Simon, and he knew he'd never seen it from me before.

When the girl who cries at the sky starts chasing the sun, you know something's happened only the planets can see.

August made an offer to appease the tension I would suffer under if allowed to flourish any further.

"There's an auction in New York next month. We're expecting to bring home some valuable finds for the museum," he said. He paused, tapping a finger on the car door he stood behind. "We could use some assistance with preparation and transport."

An olive branch.

I hoped Simon recognized it. I hoped he would accept it and offer his own, because I couldn't imagine anything better.

To my delight, it seemed my prayers were heard.

"I'm sure the team would be interested," Simon agreed. "We can meet on Monday to discuss it further. I'll give you a call."

Simon and August were incredibly similar. Both were duty-bound, mischievous when allowed, and flooded with honor like it filled their very veins. In another life, they would have been close. I felt it in my bones, saw it in their interactions, however strained they were, and heard it in their bickers. But it was their differences where they came together. It was the differences that nudged them toward seeing the similarities they so stubbornly overlooked. Their resolution wavered when vibrant hues of highlight pointed out the blocks of text seemingly copied and pasted between them.

But whether because of the similar makings of their souls, or the painted streaks of their differences, they'd reached an understanding. It was begrudging, but present, and solemnly upheld.

The two men shared a look. August nodded. He allowed himself to be pulled into the backseat by Lena, and they wished their farewells before vanishing into the night.

Carrie only waved a drunken goodbye from across the way as her boyfriend herded her to their own waiting ride. Halfway, they stopped long enough for Carrie to clamber onto his back, singing and laughing in his ear. He had a dopey smile as he sang along, growing even wider when Carrie kissed his cheek. Maybe they'd be alright.

Because maybe I was wrong.

I wondered if I was wrong about a lot of things. But it was hard to dwell on the negatives, or the mistakes, or the grievous injuries I'd inflicted when I was with Simon.

On the drive, though the cold whipped through the car, I rolled the windows down. With my wild hair tangled on my face, and my fingers ice and bone, I was free. Simon's smile from the driver's seat was brighter than the moon we drove under, and bigger than the world I'd burned.

At my place, Simon walked me to the door. I didn't want him to leave. I wrapped my hand around his tie, and whispered against his lips for him to stay, fighting his protests with assurances all I wanted was to avoid a goodbye. That was it. He didn't have to give me anything more than that. I'd settle for whatever I could get, even the gift of his presence for one more drink. Anything that would prevent the night from being over, from the cold creeping back in.

Simon eventually relented, though he sternly informed me there'd be nothing happening because of my intoxication. That was fine. I just couldn't bear to see him go. I wasn't sure he'd come back if he did.

When I too-soon stumbled and tripped over my heels in my entryway, Simon carried me. He brought me to my room, and covered his eyes while I began to change, no matter how much I laughed. He kept his eyes to the ground, even when his nimble fingers unzipped my dress. It was a mindfulness I couldn't translate right then. A gentle care, as if fearful he'd scare me in the light, or move too fast, or crumble delicate stone. Of course, I'd flown away from him on changing winds too many times for him to not expect the raising of wings. If I was grounded enough to consider that, I'd understand. But I was in the clouds, both feet on the ground, dropping my heart in his hands. So I giggled. I pointed out he'd outlined my body with his mouth only hours before. Simon only shrugged, winked, and handed me a lone, discarded heel.

When I was comfortable, and Simon's tie was undone around his neck, we went to the couch. I turned on a movie I wouldn't remember, and buried us in blankets. We started with intertwined fingers and clasped palms above the blanket. Slowly, we evolved. While the screen flickered, I carved a place by his side, finding myself welcomed by waiting arms.

Soon, the buzz faded—but the warmth never did.

It was perfect, because I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to push it as long as I could. I wanted to fight the beckons of ice as long as I was able.

Because when I wake...

The rest of the night was a dream. I remembered how I'd woken alone, curled on the cushions, with him frozen by the door, paper in hand. I remembered how his eyes had found mine as soon as I'd woken. How he'd watched as I'd approached, and how I'd reached for his hand, replacing the paper with my palm. How I'd led him back to the couch. How I'd brought him down to lay beside me, so close our legs tangled.

I'll never forget how our heartbeats played a duet, and how he'd held me all night.

How that was all I'd ever wanted.

And I remembered how I woke up the next morning, unsure what kind of person I was, but so certain that if this was wrong, or bad, then it was the greatest paradox of all.

Because I'd never felt anything so right.

Don't look at me like that. Look how long this chapter is!

I really should've split it, but I didn't want to. The next one is also really long, and that I might have to split, because geez. Also, you guys flocked to those last chapters! Way more than other ones. Or maybe you guys are re-reading it? No idea, but I love you. I hope you loved Simon and Eleanor's (Simeanor? Elemon? Is there any good way to combine their names??) moment of passion.

Story's not over yet, though...

- H