Bonten's Good Girl

"Come onnnnnnn Princess, tell me." And he flops next to you, making the bed dip with the indent of him, leaning back against the headboard.

Then, on instinct, he pulls you to him and you roll over and onto his chest, your cheek flat on his clavicle. You huff and try to move, put a meter between the two of you and he holds you tighter, a fierce and protective grip around the small of your back.

"You're going to laugh," you say, fighting tears, fighting him, fighting yourself in the process.

"I wouldn't. I only laugh at stuff that's funny and you sweetheart are not funn-"

You jab him in the stomach and he groans, laughs through It , tightening his hold as he chuckles. You hide the smile despite yourself, determined to be angry, determined not to be swayed by the easiness of him, by how quickly he can fix you. Midas and the touch that turns you to gold.

You start small, your eyes fixed on a crease in his shirt.

"Been thinking a lot lately," you say. And he hums, runs a hand through your hair, tucking loose strands behind your ears, a thumb tracing the shine of it. It feels so nice, for lack of a better way of saying it. To be touched so softly, for his hands to be so expertly good at it, like they were made for you to experience.

"I've been thinking. You know that I love you, don't you?"

"I do."

Your voice aches at the effort of it, at the entirety of it, the enormity.

"I love you so much, but I can't help think of when I'm going to lose you."

His smile twitches, falters, the corners of it strained and tense. "Whatcha mean sweetheart? I'm not going anywhere, come on now."

You shake your head, leaning into him without meaning to. "Losing you is going to devastate me. I know I haven't yet but sometimes I miss you already. It never feels like we have enough time. Often, I think about what life would be like after you. What I'd say at your funeral, how everything would remind me of you, and how even if we spend the rest of our lives together, it'll never be enough time. I'll always wish for more."

A lump sticks to his throat. "Where's all this come from, hm?"

"I don't know. I've just been thinking that's all. I know I tell you I love you A lot. I want you to always know, because one day you'll go, and I'll wish I said it more, wish you'd known how loved you were before you left."

An uncomfortable, cloistering silence hangs in the air. And you regret it immediately, already retreating.

"Listen, forget I said-"

"Pretty girl." A hand cups your cheek. Rough, big, reassuring as always. It tilts your cheek up, your chin resting on his chest, the beating heart of him thumping reassuringly under your skin.

"You know, I get it. I can't stop it from happening but I do get it."

Your voice wobbles, the idea of it, insurmountable grief and love toppling you even now. "It's going to hurt so much, I can't bear the idea, even thinking of it. What will I do? What would I do without you?"

He smiles, full of love and sorrow at once. "You'd be okay, I know you would, my strong and clever girl."

"Don't say it, don't even say it."

"I'm being serious. I think about it too. One day you might go forever and i-" His breath hitches, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth as his eyes glaze over, his Adams apple bobbing. "I understand is what I'm saying."

You lean up, your lips hovering just over his, your hands holding the sides of his face, fingers tucking his hair behind his ears, glasses now gently moved from his face. "Don't you ever leave me, okay? I swear to God if you ever stop liking me, just break up with me. I could take if you didn't love me anymore, just don't ever die, don't ever disappear and never come back. I will never forgive you."

He laughs, unexpectedly, his eyebrows quirked. "Is that a threat? You going to find me, hunt me down?"

"You bet I am. I'll never let you go."

He captures your lips then. Soft, a tender kiss, an understanding kiss, hungry and loving and perfect.

He says he remembers clear as day. A guy much older than he was at the time but a long time ago even still. And he beat him with his fists till he stopped moving, till his muscles twitched involuntarily and hanma stepped back to look in shock at what a boy that was barely double digits had done. How did it start? Well the man cuffed him around the ear with a fistful of his hair and hanma saw red, saw a blinding flash of fury slice across his eyes.

You look up at him, at his impassive, handsome face. A face you love so deeply. With all the freckles, marks and scars, amber flecked eyes that turn to you with a muted smile and you're so in awe of this special boy that you can only stare as he narrates.

Do you still think about it? You ask him, and he shrugs and tells you that it's only occasionally that he even remembers it all together. That all the deaths have blurred into one, that he doesn't think anything of them actually because he likes the rush of it sometimes anyway. So why bother being regretful over it at all?

You say you sometimes think about killing a person and before you can finish the thought, he laughs and tells you he'd never want you to. You feign indignation and ask if it's because he thinks you can't, that you're too soft and fragile, but he shakes his head, more sombre now and says that he'd never want to put the burden on taking a life on you anyway, would never want you to taint yourself in the way he's been tainted. That just because he's been doing it for so long and likes it too doesn't mean he knows or thinks it's a good thing.

A life is a life. And to take one is a heavy sin. He's clever enough and aware enough to know he's a bad man. It doesn't mean he's going to stop, but he does know.

You ask him if you'd have met in different circumstances, or if he'd love you if he'd been anyone else.

And he tilts his head to the side, chewing on his cheek and deep in thought. You like when he does this. When he indulges your curiosity, when he opens himself up, ribcage cracked open for a splice of sunlight, for your fingers to crawl around his heart.

Yes, he says, I think we would've met regardless. You're surprised again at the honesty of his answer, the cadence of such vulnerability and the way his voice softens into a whisper against the crown of your head.

I think somehow things would've worked out even if we met in different circumstances, and you would still be my sweetheart, he says, his eyes still trained on the TV like as if the heat isn't crawling into your belly.

The question is, he goes on, would you still like me if I was someone else too? And you sense it on the edge of his words. A hand extending to hold onto you, a naked and soft breath, a vulnerability.

You pretend to ponder just for the sake of it but the answer is always going to be the same. Yes, obviously, a thousand times yes. You were made for him. Even if(and you have) dated other people, and even if the circumstances were different, what other man could be your hero in the same way he is? What other man could complete you so entirely? What other man could've given you such a gift that he has? An ability to believe in yourself, to see yourself as a girl capable and worthy of love, of everything.

What if I was a salaryman? A doctor? An engineer? A teacher?

All of the above and then some. And yes you'd be happy just to do laundry and taxes and mark papers with him and go on coffee shop dates and picnics and make tiramisu for him and warm his hands in the winter and it would be fine because you would be together.

You're so sappy, aren't you sweetheart? He says, an attempt to hide that familiar feeling again, that soft warmth in his chest that blooms whenever he thinks about you.

Is it wrong to say he wants a future with you? That maybe he'd like you to be his wife one day and that it isn't a joke when he says he'll make it so. That yeah, somehow, the idea of going on coffee shop runs with you or supermarket trips when you've run out of cereal on a weekend doesn't bore him at all if he thinks he's doing it with you. That the reason he's so scared and afraid is because it'd you, and it was never meant to be.

What a fool he's been. He was meant to be the one who kept his head throughout, no? The one who refused to catch any feelings, who was so sure he wouldn't when you started offhandedly seeing each other, who would be breaking your heart because of course you'd fall for him eventually right? What a complication it was when he fell first. (You're not stupid, you knew it already)

But somehow, coming to think of it. The idea of being in love with you doesn't sound so bad.