It was well after midnight, when he stepped into the library and she knew, without turning from the fireplace that it was him and not some other member of the household, wandering about, restless and anxious and unable to sleep; she knew it was him, because something inside her simply always knew when he was near, even if she didn’t see him with her eyes, her soul knew. And it terrified her. It terrified her almost as much as it thrilled her, forbidden as that thrill was, when he with steps so silent, she didn’t actually hear him cross the room, but hearing didn’t matter, nothing mattered, when his arms slipped around her waist with possessive intent that had her instinctively reclining against his chest when common sense told her to pull away.

A whimper of wanton need escaped her, when his lips brushed over her neck, ghosting over her skin, his breath deliciously warm, fanning the every growing flames of need that raged inside her; flames that only he had ever created within her, while his brother – the man she was there to marry, the man she had been promised to when they were children – never made her feel even a flicker of warmth, when he placed a chaste his against her hand. “We can’t…” The words, the refusal, the denial, faded when he kissed the sensitive skin beneath her ear and she wanted, gods how she wanted, to turn around in his arms and finally feel his lips claim hers, but she knew if she did turn, if she allowed that claiming of lips, the claiming wouldn’t stop there.

If she kissed him, if he ever truly kissed her, she would be completely lost, honor and promises be damned, because if she allowed that kiss to happen, there would be no stopping, no going back, no more pretending her reputation or virtue mattered when all she wanted was become his and have him become hers.

“If you marry my brother, you will be miserable for the rest of your life.”

“I know.” She allowed the tears to slip from her eyes, as she whispered the words.

He sighed, sounding tired and defeated, as his arms released her and she knew, as he stepped back, as he would never make any attempt to hold her again.

“I leave tomorrow.”

“Don’t – “

“I won’t stand by and watch you marry a man you don’t love.”

His exist was as silent as his entrance, but she knew when he left, because he took the warmth with him, took her heart and a piece of her soul along with it, leaving her alone with only the truths he had spoken to provide cold company.

#NotExactlyWhatYouAskedFor #LosingLove #NotEvenSureWhatThisIs

You’ve never liked the rain. It reminds you of all those loud, stormy nights. The one time you ever caught your sister crying. The night you slept in that horror show of a basement. The first time your heart was broken. The night your parents all but disowned you. The day your cousin died. The rain is just full of bad memories for you.

But not for her.

She loves the rain. She told you as much, right off the bat. It was raining, the night you met. You’re pretty sure you didn’t notice, you were so caught up in everything she is, was, and ever will be.

And here you are, caught in the rain like in one of those cheesy rom-coms she insists you should actually bother to watch. But it's much more entertaining watching her scoff at your offer of a jacket. To watch her skip out from under the canopy you had attempted to hide away under.

She let you watch her do a twirl or two until she got bored of that, and came back. She held out her hand to you in offer.

“Dance with me,” she says. It wasn’t a question, and you know what your answer would be if it was, what with that damned smile of hers. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“In the cold, wet rain? With no music? When we have to be at your father’s fancy dinner party in 10 minutes?”

She didn’t even hesitate with her response. “Yes.”

And that's all it took.

That's all it took for her to let you lead in some kind of makeshift waltz, around the park that you swore that you would never return to once upon a time.

You’re half an hour late to her father's house. Both your dresses are dripping wet all night, and you’re pretty sure you look like a drowned rat.

She looks beautiful, of course. She always looks beautiful.

She loathes her looks, detests how her curls won’t quite stay in perfect place. She’s disgusted by her yellowing teeth and the red bumps which mar her face. She looks at other women, wishing she could have their flawless complexions and petite figures. They say beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, but she’s looking through a dirty glass. She makes sure she’s in perfect form when she uploads a photo to social media, accepting silent applause when it gets 3 or 4 likes. She was caught off guard when he noticed her in a sea of online faces - clicked on her profile and began being one of those nice guys she’s always dreamed of. He was an ocean, filled with healing vibrations, and she yearned for his embrace and acceptance. He randomly asks for her to send him a photo on a rainy afternoon, just so he can admire the beauty she’ll never notice. A butterfly can’t see its wings because they’re invisible to its own eyes, but he can see her wings, and she astounds him more and more every day. One day she’ll see her beauty, even if it takes their entire lives for him to convince her she’s the loveliest angel he’s ever seen.