Deep Inside
The space between us hums with something fragile, like glass holding heat.
Marcel stands by the window again, the city lights painting gold across his skin. His shirt is undone, collar open, tie forgotten on the floor.
He looks over at me. “You should hate me for coming here.”
“Maybe I do,” I say softly. “But I hate myself more for wanting you to.”
His expression shifts, something fierce and unguarded. “You think this is want?” he asks, stepping closer. “It’s more than that, Jocelyn. I haven’t wanted anyone in years. I’ve only needed.”