little lover

them, locked in a cell of their own making, watching what they cannot have. those cold, steely walls that otherwise commanded dignity and respect encapsulating their heated breaths, pretending that they’re yours.

I'm having fun playing this game.

until she finds him. in a mountain pass, where the snow is as white as his sunbleached bones. she knows it's him from the contents of his bag and the baby blanket she sewed in his hands. his leg is horrificly broken and she imagines he fell and became stuck here, unable to climb out in the winter freeze. the hero died in such a human way. slowly. alone.

she had only taken this path because the trail had gone cold and she wanted to return to her son.

the mountain pass was a short cut back home.

1. canonically female (no variation)

2. canonically the protagonist of her story (if it’s an ensemble cast you have to say you can legitimately see her as The main character)

3. your personal #1 favorite character in that story (ties are acceptable)

It's barely an hour later when you arrive back home, shutting the door a little too loudly and huffing a frustrated sigh that Frank can hear from your living room. He's lounging on your couch when you walk in, eyeing the television to see what he's watching.

"I hate baseball." You roughly drop your handbag down onto the armchair. "It's a stupid game."

Frank eyes you cautiously and, for the sake of your sour mood and his chances at living, he shuts the TV off. "Didn't go well, I take it?"

"He spent the whole time we were there with his eyes glued to his phone, checking the game updates on Twitter. I don't think he looked at me once after he showed up- late, might I add," you rant, pacing back and forth before you get fed up with the sound of your heals and kick them off. "And then- then! He tried to order for me. A steak for him, and a salad for me. Can you fucking believe that?"

"Do you want me to kill him?"

You stop and look at Frank, sitting forward on your couch, giving you his undecided attention. You know he means it.

"No," you sigh. Then you think for a moment. "But if you could find a way to greatly inconvenience him, that'd be great."

"His tires will be deflated first thing Monday morning," he tells you.

When you smile and move to the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine, he stiffens a little. He hadn't planned on being here when you got back, didn't expect your date to end so soon. You don't notice it at first, but after removing the cork from the bottle and turning to ask if he wants a glass, you see it.

"What's this?"

Frank's eyes do this thing- it's rare, but every so often he gets nervous and his eyes go from their default angry squint to these big, wide deer-in-headlights saucers.

"Flowers," he says. His gruff voice sounds different when he's quiet. No, not just quiet- when he's soft. It sounds raw and vulnerable. It tickles your ears and makes your heart flutter.

"I see that," you say slowly, examining the bouquet in the old vase you hadn't used in ages. A mix of pinks and whites and purples and oranges. "What's it doing here?"

Frank takes a deep breath. "Got 'em for you."

You smile; real, genuine, sweet. Like every ounce of anger and disappointment and insult from your failed date didn't exist anymore. "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion. Just... Thought you deserved flowers," he says, twiddling with his thumbs. For a moment you think you're looking at a much younger Frank, the one you know once sat under a tree and felt embarrassed to be told by a beautiful girl that he was butchering the song he was practicing. "Was gonna give them to you earlier but you were, uh, you were in a rush."

"That's sweet Frank," you say softly. "Thank you."

"I'd line up."

Your eyebrows furrow. "What?"

"What you said earlier, about not having any men lined up outside your door," he clarifies. "I'd line up."

"Frank-"

"And I'd scare off anyone who tried to get in line behind me."

You laugh, picturing it perfectly in your mind. "You don't have to say that just because I had a bad date."

"Maybe I wouldn't say it if the date went well," he says, his eye contact intense and unbreaking, "y'know, out of respect. But it would still be true."

You swallow. "You wouldn't have to line up outside my door. I would let you in."

Frank stands from the couch, slowly making his way to you. He takes the wine bottle from your hand and sets it aside, his other hand finding your waist in a featherlight touch you could hardly feel.

"Let me take you out tomorrow. Show you a real date- treat you like the lady you are."

You wrap your arms around his neck, and obediently, his forehead drops down to rest against yours.

"And tonight?" You risk asking. "How will you treat me tonight?"