#rutledge

Edward was a complicated man, never a constant presence in your life, always a mystery, carrying that enigmatic air around him. He dropped in out of nowhere, texted in the middle of the night from an unknown number, never caring about whatever plans you had. And when he showed up, he swept the whole world in with him.

He never told you exactly what he did or what he was, but there was something in his eyes that told you everything you needed to know. The scars, the countless nervous tics he had, the way he tasted like mint no matter what time or place.

Unstable. That was the conclusion you came to one night, right when he stormed out of your bedroom and vanished for three whole months, disappearing off the face of the Earth after what started as a silly argument on your world views took a sharp and wrong turn. But he always came back, like a stray, rugged cat that wanted, craved, needed attention and a warm embrace from time to time. You’d never turn him away, having a weird soft spot for the strays.

Just like tonight. He showed up on your doorstep and you let him in without a second thought, sinking into his arms the moment the door clicked shut. There was no hello, no pretense of small talk. Only his mouth on yours; messy, rushed, like he didn’t know what he was depraved of more: breath, contact, or the faint promise of being wanted and needed back.

He kissed like a man starved. Like he thought it might be the last time. And maybe he did.

He was all over the place. Gripping your waist too hard, dragging your shirt off like it offended him, pressing you up against the nearest wall as if the distance between your bodies physically hurt him. You gasped into his mouth and he swallowed the sound like it meant something. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to take control or hand it over to you. One second his hands were in your hair, tugging, grounding himself. The next, he was melting under your touch, chasing it with watery eyes and soft breaths, begging with his whole being, like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

There was something unhinged, manic even, in the way he held you, like he was trying to crawl inside your skin, trying to forget. Or remember. You never knew with him. You just knew you’d let him take whatever he needed.

And when it was over, when the tension finally bled out of him and he was left wrung out and quiet, no longer attacked by the buzz in his head, he collapsed face-down across your lap, barely covered by the sheets. In your bed, in your space.

You ran your fingers through his dirty blonde hair, gently scratching the back of his neck. That always earned you a soft little sound from him, one he always denied making. Stubborn.

Still, you’d hold him through anything. Trace the sharp angles of his face with the pads of your fingers. Let him cling, let him stay as close as he wanted, and never say a word about it, aside from that one time your ribs had protested under the strength of his grip.

You really wished he could stay.

But he was dripping with pain. Drowning in it.

And seeing Edward on the news, consumed by everything he carried, was far from pleasant.