#killer yaps

oh you think the drawing looks shitty? u think that the things written on it doesn't make sense? me too but who cares-

but that's okay because this shit that took me ALMOST ALL NIGHT TO DO is just gonna get at least 7 notes! :D

HOW BEAUTIFUL ISN'T IT RIGHT?? YOU ALMOST DIE TRYING TO MAKE THE BEST OF UR BEST IN YOUR DRAWINGS, WANTING PEOPLE TO SEE IT AND AT LEAST GET SOME COMPLIMENTS. EVERYONE WANTS THIS RIGHT????SO GOOD LUCK IN TUMBLR, BITCH.

"Be grateful with what you have" BUT I HAVE NOTHING

WHAT THE FUCK???????????

"It seems so, Phoenix. I just wonder how long it will take for these two to break" Hangman started, straightening up from the pool table as he does. "Don't start now, Bagman" Phoenix tried. Key word: tried.

Hangman said as-a-matter-of-factly, "What? I'm just saying. If we're spending the next few weeks together, these two are bound to fuck it out." You wanted to punch him in the face. Breathe in. Breathe out. "Do you want me to rearrange your nose, pretty boy?" you sneered.

With a dramatic hand to his chest, "you think I'm pretty?" Hangman teased. Your eye twitched.

One.

Two.

"I'm just playing! You're way too serious, Den!" he mused playfully, pulling you into his chest with his arm like one an older brother would when play-fighting. Only this time it wasn't funny. You grimaced, trying to pry his arm away from you. "Come on, I'll buy you a beer!" his voice fades from the group of aviators as he drags you onto the bar. "Is he always like that?" Bob, staring at both of yours' figures, asked. "You'll get used to it." Cayote replied as he crosses his arms.

It was only then when they realiohzed Rooster retreated to the pool table, busying himself with Fritz. Phoenix turned to him knowingly.

"....So what's up with them?" Fanboy murmured to Phoenix, eyes fixated at Bradley.

Nat only glared at him.

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The first morning was... weird.

You sat a row away from Bradley—which you were thankful for—but even so, for some reason, you still felt curious eyes burning at your head.

The instructor came in. And you were met with a rather familiar face. A pleasant one on your end—Maverick. You couldn't say the same for the man sitting a few chairs behind you. You shot your head towards Bradley as soon as Maverick started speaking. You caught him with an expression you could only describe as if someone's puppy just got stepped on. Your eyes narrowed on him. You may not be on speaking terms with Bradley but you know enough to know how he's thinking. Especially with Maverick.

You make a mental note to ask him how he is after briefing.

Because that's what friends do. That's what friends do.

"Rooster!" you cringe at the foreign sound. His callsign sounded weird coming from you. You were sure he thought the same from the way his body froze. As if he never thought it would ever come out from your lips. He stopped his tracked, turning to face you.

What are you doing? Fuck, turn back around!

"Denver," your heart skipped a beat at the sound of your callsign. It sounded unsure, as if he was trying how it projected from his mouth. "Uh...How are you?" seriously? what are you, fifteen? He nods. "I'm doin', great, how 'bout you?"

You nod awkwardly, your lips thinning. "Yeah uhm, same here..." there was silence for a moment. You didn't know what else to say. Why did you even talk to him in the first place? He looks at you from head to toe, the kind that makes your knees feel like jelly. "You uh, you look good." he said in a low voice that made you want to bang your head into a brick wall. Or his.

You nod, tearing your gaze from his. "You too." You murmured. Your mind wandered back to Bradley and Maverick. You stared at each other for a few seconds. You started, "So, you and Ma—" you didn't even finish your sentence as he cut through you. "You and Hangman seem close." His tone, laced with something you can't quite pin-point. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was jealous. But that's just ridiculous. You and Jake were friends. Atleast that's what Bradley heard you say.

His face twitched ever so slightly. Barely visible. He hoped you didn't caught it. Jake. Since when were you and Bagman on first name basis? Moreover—Rooster? Not Bradley. Not Brad. Not B. Fuck, not even Bradshaw. He composed himself, gave you a nod before excusing himself.

You watch him retreat in the opposite direction. You were confused. That went...Well? You guess?

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Contrary to popular belief—by popular belief, you mean the rest of the squad—the next few weeks consisted of you and Bradley, well, co-existing. You'd dogfight in the same sky, serve punishments on the same tarmac, sit through debrief and lessons in the same room, eat lunch in the same cafeteria, go home your separate ways, and repeat.

Phoenix was walking next to you. The day just ended and the sun was setting in a pretty orange hue. "The squad's at the Hard Deck now" Nat mentioned as you trekked the tarmac.

You chuckled hesitantly, "is he going to be there?"

"Is he in the squad?" Nat cocked her head to you now with that glimmer in her eye that convinced you the pilot was up to no good. You faced her. "Touché." You kissed your teeth, nodding.

You stop your tracks just by where hers and your car is. "I'll think about it."

"Alright, let me know, okay?" she noted before getting in her car. You offered one last smile before you do the same. "I will. Bye Nat, drive safe."

"You too!"

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You were going.

And no—you’re not going for Bradley. That’s what you keep telling yourself. You’re going for your friends. Because you refuse to be that petty almost-ex-girlfriend of the friend group who disappears just because he’ll be there. You are an adult. You can coexist with Bradley. You can handle this.

You pull up to the Hard Deck and switch off the engine.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

The moment the car door swings open, the cool California breeze washes over you. It hits differently than it did this time last year. Everything does. Back then, the same air felt warm—weightless—like something held you. Now it feels sharper, almost like a slap. A reminder instead of a memory.

And because your brain fucking hates you, you’re back again—the crash of waves. The late-May heat. His scent settling over you like it belonged there.

His hands at your waist. The brush of his mustache against your skin—had he always been planning to leave?

Those road-trip nights, the whispered promises, the half-kisses in the dark—were you never worth the risk?

But maybe you're fine like this.

Maybe pretending works.

Maybe pretending you didn’t happen is the safest option for both of you.

You shake it off. Shoulders back. Mask on.

You push through the bar doors.

Phoenix straightens when she spots you first. “Denver’s here,” she announces like it’s a weather alert. Suddenly, half the aviators are rotating like satellites.

The low buzz of laughter rushes into your ears. The squad is already there—Phoenix waves you over. Jake whistles loudly, six beers deep already, waving like an idiot. You manage a smile.

Then your eyes betray you.

They go searching.

And they find him.

Bradley’s leaned against the pool table, beer halfway to his mouth, curls a little longer, biceps a little bigger, his classic Hawaiian shirt rolled at the sleeves in a way that should be illegal. He looks up at the exact moment you do.

A spark.

A jolt.

An oh, fuck—look away.

You try.

He doesn’t.

His gaze lingers like smoke—slow, warm, territorial. It’s the look of a man who remembers everything your mouth ever did and hates that he still does.

You swallow and force your legs to keep moving.

“Denver!” Jake’s voice erupts across the bar before you even take three steps inside. “Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence!” He throws both arms open like he’s about to hug you—

You catch him by the collar before he fully commits. “Don’t you dare,” you warn with narrowed eyes.

He cracks a laugh, "Need a drink?” He’s already halfway to the bar without waiting for an answer. "Why is it everytime I come here he's always offering me a drink?" you say, shaking your head with a smile as the aviator struts his way to Penny.

Bob gives a small, polite wave from his seat—posture perfect, eyes flickering between you and Bradley like he’s monitoring air traffic. Coyote nods in greeting. Fanboy elbows Payback, whispering way too loudly:

“Thought she wasn't coming—”

“Maybe don’t narrate?” Phoenix hisses, smacking the back of his head. You laugh under your breath, the tension loosening—until instinct drags your gaze over your shoulder.

Rooster hasn’t moved from the pool table.

Jake returns with a beer, sliding it into your hand.

“There she is,” he coos dramatically, slinging an arm around you like he’s claiming territory he absolutely shouldn’t be claiming. Especially not when Bradley's sround.

Bradley’s grip on his pool cue tightens so hard his knuckles bleach white.

You should step out of Jake’s hold.

You don’t.

Not immediately.

Not until the new guy appears—tall, stupidly pretty, and confident in a way that feels both charming and dangerous.

“Lieutenants, good evening,” he greets with a crisp nod.

The squad responds with their greetings. You offer your own polite smile. “Hi.” He smiles back, directed entirely at you. “Lieutenant Walton,” he introduces, though his eyes say Call me something better. Jake actually groans under his breath. “Great. Another sailor with a jawline.” You elbow him. He pretends it didn’t hurt.

Walton shifts closer—a little too close. “Haven’t seen you around before,” he says. "New to North Island?" “Technically,” you reply, shrugging. “Just got in a few weeks ago."

“Ah. Fresh meat.” His grin widens.

Behind him, Bradley misses his next shot by a landslide—ball ricocheting off the table like it’s personally offended. “Wow,” Phoenix mutters amusingly to Bob. “He never misses that shot.” Bob nods slowly, eyes darting between Rooster and Walton. “This’ll be… something.”

Walton keeps talking—asking about where you trained, what you fly, what brought a pretty girl like you to the Navy—and you’re surprised by how easy he is to talk to. He’s funny. He’s clever. He’s clearly interested.

But what’s even funnier?

Bradley’s glare.

Sharp enough to slice steel.

Deadly enough to sink ships.

Every time Walton leans in to say something, Bradley’s posture changes—shoulders squared, chest out, jaw locked so tight a muscle jumps beneath his mustache. The squad is absolutely watching this unfold like it’s their nightly entertainment. “Rooster looks like he’s about to commit murder,” Fanboy whispers. “Bet Hangman twenty bucks he’d snap by eleven,” Payback replies.

“You’re gonna lose,” Nat predicts, sipping her beer.

And she’s right. Because suddenly it’s 2200—two hours of conversation you didn’t intend to have—and Walton is still right there. Leaning in closer every time you laugh.

His stories are amusing enough. But the real comedic highlight of your night?

Every single time Walton touches your arm, Bradley’s face twists like he’s watching someone drown a puppy. Walton leans just a bit closer now, voice soft. “So… you got plans this weekend?” Casual. Smooth. Interested.

You freeze for just a second, beer halfway to your lips.

You can feel the weight of Bradley’s stare scorching into the back of your neck.

He’s no longer pretending to play pool.

He’s not even holding the cue anymore.

He’s just staring—like he can’t decide whether to punch Walton…

…or drag you out of the bar.

Phoenix sighs dramatically. “And there it is,” Coyote crosses his arms, smirking. Jake leans into you with a low whistle. “Careful, Den. Rooster’s gonna pop a blood vessel.” He looks at Bradley, calling out with a wide grin, “You good over there, Bagman #2?”

Bradley doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink.

And when Walton places a hand—light, casual—on your waist to shift closer…

Bradley moves.

Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous. Everyone went still—like they're holding their breaths. The music doesn’t stop. But your heart does.

Because everyone knows:

He’s done watching.

Done biting his tongue while some other guy stands where he used to stand. Done pretending that this silence between you hasn’t been choking him out slowly, day after fucking day. It’s been weeks of playing it cool—weeks of acting like not having you under his hands doesn’t make him want to put his fist through the nearest wall just to feel something besides missing you.

He’s done pretending he doesn’t see the way you look away the second you meet his eyes—like you’re scared you’ll fall straight back into him. Pretending he doesn’t ache every time you pass him in the hall and pretend not to notice the electricity snapping between you.

The truth?

He’s starving for you.

He wants to pin you back against the wall and kiss you the way he was never supposed to—hard enough to steal every breath from your mouth until you’re gasping his name like you used to. He wants his hands on your jaw, on your hips, everywhere they don’t belong anymore. He wants to relearn the sound you make when you break under him, the way you used to soften, melt, open for him like it was inevitable.

He wants all of you—

the parts he had,

the parts he lost,

and the parts he never got to keep.

He’s done pretending like the absence of your touch hasn’t been killing him.

He’s done pretending.

And now?

He’s not hiding it anymore.

Because if Walton doesn’t remove his hand in the next three seconds…

there’s going to be a problem.

Walton doesn't. Not even when he could feel six pairs of eyes on him.

A hand lands on his shoulder—

—and shoves.

Not enough to start a bar fight. Just enough to say back off. The guy stumbles half a step and turns, pissed. “The hell, man?”

Bradley’s voice drops low, lethal. “She's not interested.” Your heart slams against your ribs. The guy glances at you for confirmation. Your lips part—silence.

Because you’re not sure what you are.

Not with Bradley.

Not without him.

Jake immediately steps between them, arms out like a chaotic referee. “Okay! Boys, let’s not ruin Penny’s bar, yeah?” Phoenix drags a hand over her face. Fanboy whispers, “Called it.” Bob looks ready to flee. Coyote just mutters, “Here we go.”

Bradley ignores every single one of them. His eyes—only on you.

“That what you’re doing now?” he asks quietly. A hint of hurt under the fury. “Letting random guys put their hands on you?”

Something snaps in you.

Maybe pride.

Maybe pain.

“Why do you care?”

His nostrils flare. “You know why.” he says, voice cracking around the edges.

It’s terrifying, the way the room seems to shrink around you two. The music fades. The lights blur. It’s just him—standing too close, smelling too familiar, looking like he’d burn the world down before he lets you walk away with someone else.

“I’m gonna grab some air,” you say with a tight expression, leaving Walton hanging and Bradley nit less in peace. It’s not a lie, exactly—you can’t breathe in here.

You turn away before you do something stupid, like stare into Bradley’s eyes long enough to remember things you should’ve already forgotten.

The night air hits you as you step outside. Cool. Sharp. Real. You lean your palms against the railing overlooking the beach, eyes squeezed shut.

You don’t hear footsteps.

You feel them.

“Denver.”

His voice. Low. Rough. The one that used to whisper against your neck. You don’t turn around. Not yet. Not when your stupid heart still responds to him like a command. “Denver!” he says louder this time. "Shit," he calls ot your name this time. His hand twitches like he’s one second from grabbing you—from staking a claim he forfeited.

You snap.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you spit out, spinning to face him, chest heaving, every nerve screaming. "He wasn't even doing anything!" you yell at him, it comes out more aggressive than you wanted it to be. Bradley doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. "I didn't like the way he was with you." He stands there like he’s been starving—and you’re the feast he walked away from. You scoff, "You're unbelievable, you know that?"

“What, so now you're tell me you’re jealous?” you hiss, venom dripping from every word. “Now that I’m finally moving on?”

His jaw tightens. “What if I say I am?"

“Well don't! You don't get to be jealous, Rooster! There's no us, and there was never an us!” You step closer, rage sharpening your voice.

“That’s not—”

“Oh, shut up,” you cut him off. “You left. You ran. And now you’re pissed because someone else actually wants me?”

Bradley’s eyes flare fire. “Is that what you think happened!?” His voice drops low, thick with frustration. “I left because you made me! Every time I tried to stay, you shoved me away. Every time I reached for you, you pushed me out. I left because that’s what you wanted!”

You want to yell. To slap him. To shove all this fury into him. But the moment he steps closer, your knees weaken, and it’s infuriating. You ball your hands into fists, trembling. “I was trying to protect you from myself! You think it was easy for me to let you in?”

“Protect me from yourself?” His voice cracks, ragged now. “You were not protecting me, you were afraid of somebody actually staying. I know you were afraid,— fuck, I was too! But I wanted it to be you, and I wanted you with me!”

For a heartbeat, you just stare. His eyes glint with something raw—rage, hurt, and a pull that twists your insides.

“You’re impossible,” you whisper, voice shaking.

“Yeah,” he breathes, dangerously close. “And so are you.”

The air between you burns suffocatingly. Every look ignites another memory, every breath is a reminder of everything that went wrong. The tension is a living thing, clawing at the both of you, daring one of you to break first.

He drags his hands down his face, shoulders collapsing like he’s finally run out of fight. That sight alone steals the breath from your lungs. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to love someone who won’t let you stay?” he murmurs, small, wounded, the kind of soft that hurts worse than screaming.

Your throat closes, the truth spilling through clenched teeth.

“I tried,” you fire back, not angry at him, but at yourself, every word dripping with self-loathing. “God, I tried so fucking hard to let you in!” Your fists curl at your sides, nails biting into your palms. “But every time I did, every time I let myself believe you were real—I panicked. I pushed you away first. I told myself I was protecting us but really…” you shook your head no. You weren't gonna admit defeat, he your stubbornness that much. In the first place, it's one of the qualities that made him fall for you. Your voice fractures, tears welling hot and furious. Your breath stutters, a choked whisper slipping free. “—And then you ran, Bradley, you always ran.”

You meet his eyes, your scowl faltering, shame bleeding through—like you’re finally admitting the thing that’s been tearing you apart all this time. “I ran because you told me to,” he fires back, but the anger in his voice keeps trembling, like it’s barely holding itself together. “I left because you looked at me like I was the problem. Like everything would finally be okay if I just disappeared.” His chest rises and falls in uneven, frantic breaths. His voice splinters.

“Not because I wanted to,” he says, quieter now, broken. “I never wanted to. I never stopped caring.”

Tears fill his eyes faster than he can blink them away. His hands curl into fists at his sides—not in anger, but in desperation. “And when I saw you again…” His throat closes around the words. A single tear slips free, and he squeezes his eyes shut, like he hates the weakness. “God, everything inside me just collapsed. You were right there—so close—and all I wanted was to hold you like I used to. To kiss you like you still wanted me.”

He forces himself to meet your gaze, even though his chin keeps shaking. “But I didn’t. Because what if touching you just reminded you how much better life is without me? What if you forgot what it felt like to be wanted by me… like you were the only good thing I ever had?” His voice shatters on the last part. “What if you forgot how much I missed you?”

You're staring at him like you don't recognize this version of him—this unguarded, unraveling mess. Your scowl hasn’t fully disappeared, but it’s cracking at the edges and your eyes are shining, tears threatening to spill despite the fury still tightening your jaw. Your breath stutters, but still, you refuse to look away. Because now you see it—how devastated he’s been. How every word is costing him a piece of himself.

The words hang between you. Heavy. Explosive. Electric. Your lips tremble. His jaw tightens. You want to close the space between you, but you also want to run. You want to hurt him, but you also want him to hold you.

“You think I’ve forgotten?” you whisper. “You think seeing you again wouldn’t…?”

“Wouldn’t what?” His voice is hoarse. “Burn you up inside? Make you insane?” He steps closer, dangerously close, enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. “Because guess what? It’s burning me too. Every second without you. Every day after I left, I was dying.” Your chest heaves. You feel the sharp, piercing truth of it, mingled with fury and something unnameable. For a long, searing moment, the world falls away. Nothing exists but the two of you—anger, regret, longing, pain, and a fire neither can control.

Then, just when the tension is unbearable, he steps back, breathing hard, eyes glinting with everything unspoken. “You make me insane," he says your name.

He closes the space between you in two steps. You freeze—fury sparking with heat that terrifies you. His tongue presses to the inside of his cheek—wow, you piss him off. Good. “But i’m not walking away again,” he says, low and lethal. “So yell. Hate me. Hit me. I’ll take every bullet—but I’m staying right fucking here.”

You hate how your heart sprints. How your fingers shake. How he still knows exactly where to aim. “You don’t get to just decide that,” you whisper—sharp but cracking. Bradley leans in closer, crowding your space, but he doesn’t touch you. “You don’t want me to go,” he says quietly. “Say you do, and I’m gone.” You open your mouth—and nothing comes out. Because you don’t know how to kill a truth that’s still alive.

His voice drops, rough. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You turn away. Because if you keep looking at him, you’ll break. And you refuse to break for him again. You take a step. Then another.

The wind is cold. The night is loud. You tell yourself this is good. Distance. Escape. But just when you think you’re free—

His arms are around your waist. Too large for you. Too warm. Too damn familiar. He's locking you back against him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You gasp, shock and betrayal and something dangerously close to relief all tangled up. His forehead drops into the crook of your shoulder—like that place was made for him. You're mad you know it was.

His voice comes out wrecked, "please don’t walk away from me.” Your eyes squeeze shut. “Rooster—”

It’s a warning. A plea. A lie.

His grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to bold on. "My name, baby. Say my name." It's soft, his lips even softer when he presses a kiss to your neck. You hate how it's making you weak. You hate how you're giving in.

"—Bradley, please let me go." you say softly. He shakes his head. “I know I don’t deserve to touch you,” he whispers, breath trembling against your skin, “but I can’t stand here and watch you walk out of my life again.”

Your fingers clench uselessly at your sides. He’s shaking. Bradley Bradshaw—unshakeable, unflappable Rooster—is shaking.

You turn around, pulling him just enough you look up at him, his eyes are brimming with tears, lips pressed tight in a scowl. Your chest heaves, fists clenching at your sides, a mixture of anger, hurt, and disbelief radiating from you like heat.

“You think you’re too much sometimes,” he starts, voice low, rough with emotion. “Too loud. Too stubborn. Too reckless. You think people get scared of you, scared of how much you feel, scared of how much you fight to protect yourself.” He let's go, not entirely. He has his hands on your waist.

You flinch, but dont look away.

“You think you’re not good enough,” he continues, each word jagged with honesty, each one a hit you can’t dodge. “That no one could ever want you the way you want them. That every mistake, every misstep, every word you didn’t say… makes you less. Less than anyone else. Less than me.”

Tears spill over now, streaking your face, but you keep your stubborn scowl, defiant. Your voice shakes, barely a whisper, “I… I’m not—”

“You think you’re broken,” he interrupts, eyes softening with desperation. “You think you’re too complicated, too impossible to love. You think I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t care, shouldn’t even want you…”

Your scowl falters for a fraction of a second, and he seizes it, stepping closer, until the space between them is electric, charged with everything unspoken. He places his hands between your tear-stricken face.

“And…” His voice drops, trembling, gentle but fierce. “…I love you. All of it. Every flaw you think makes you unworthy. Every fear, every crack, every messy, impossible piece of you. And I love you. Because that’s you. Every part of you, every fire, every jagged edge, every storm you think pushes me away—it’s what I want. I want it all. I want you, baby."

You blink, tears sliding down your cheeks as the scowl softens into disbelief, pain, and something deeper she can’t name. Your chest heaves, words caught somewhere between a sob and a scream.

“You… love me?” You whisper, voice breaking, voice raw.

“I love you,” he repeats, voice low, unwavering. “I’m not apologizing. I love you—all of you—and I always will. I love you.”

Your knees feel weak. Your chest feels heavy. Your scowl remains, but it’s softer now, more fragile, a shield cracking under the force of everything he just said. And for the first time in forever, the storm inside you seems to quiet… just enough to let the truth sink in.

Bradley just watches you, eyes dark, intense, burning with everything he’s felt and held back. “Stay,” he breathes, soft but firm. “Just… stay here. Look at me.” you refuse. "Baby, please look at me."

Your scowl has completely fallen now, replaced by tears, trembling lips, and a heart hammering so violently it hurts. Bradley’s eyes are dark, soft, and intense, every ounce of emotion he’s held back for months radiating from him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers, voice ragged, trembling. “Just… stay. Let me stay.”

Your chest heaves. You want to push him away, to run, to scream, but every instinct in your body betrays you. And he knows it. He sees the fracture in your armor, the raw, bleeding part of you that only he has ever known.

Slowly—painfully slow—he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, breath mingling, hearts hammering in perfect, agonizing sync. He murmurs your name against your lips, soft and trembling. “Please.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Your hands fumble at his chest, your fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt as if touching him could anchor you in reality.

Then, finally, he closes the distance. His lips are soft, desperate, claiming. The first brush is light, testing, and it steals your breath in an instant. Your eyes squeeze shut. He doesn’t stop. He presses closer, tilting his head, lips moving against yours with a fevered urgency that shatters every wall you’ve built. His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks through tears, holding you like he’s afraid the world will rip you from him if he lets go.

You try to fight it—try to push him back—but the fire in his kiss, the raw ache in every movement, the desperate pleading behind every touch—it breaks you. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your body trembling against his. He groans softly into the kiss, ragged, broken, full of every thing he’s felt and every thing he’s denied. Every flaw, every doubt, every heartbreak, he’s kissing it all into submission.

And in that moment, all your walls fall. The scowl, the anger, and fear melts. You cling to him, trembling, sobbing against his chest, feeling every ounce of his love crash into you. He pulls back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, lips brushing, voice low and raw. “You’ve always been mine,” he breathes. “Every impossible, infuriating, beautiful piece of you… mine. I love you so much.”

You blink through tears, trembling, trying to form words. All you can do is whisper back, breathless, raw, “I… I love you too.”