He told me a year and a half ago I looked good in crop tops; now, I am standing in his living room with his hands filling the distance between my jeans and my shirt.  

​

I usually avoid wearing cropped shirts around him as we inevitably exchange glances with far too many implications behind them. My reasoning for risking the implications tonight is unexplainable, even to myself. It might have to do with the endless notifications on my phone from someone who claims to “love me like no other” and “only has eyes for me,” yet has never respected me enough to give me a moment alone. That someone is also the only reason we are vertical rather than horizontal. 

​

“I hate you with every fiber of my being right now.” His forehead is pressed up against mine as he says it, our lips just an inch apart. 

​

“No, you don't.” 

​

“Of course I don't. I hate having to have the self-control of a god, so I don’t—” he cuts himself off, not daring to verbalize his thoughts further as he pulls me closer. 

​

I laugh. “For the record, I hate you too.” 

 

He makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a giggle and grips me tighter. 

​

“If you're not careful, you'll bruise me,” I say, audible only to him. 

​

I don't actually care. I want him to pull me in and give me the first good first kiss I’ve ever had and bruise my hips until they feel so sore that I can’t move without thinking of him. I want him to destroy me and stay long enough afterward to put me back together again. I want him, and I think he’s the only person I’ve ever wanted.