MIDWINTER MATE
I care for him now, and that care is a poison to the plan.
I spend the rest of the dark hours tossing, the sheets feeling like sandpaper. Kol rises with the sun, his internal clock as disciplined as ever. When he notices I’m staring, he offers a tentative smile, asking how I rested. “Good enough,” I lie, rolling away to find my clothes.
“Last night was…” Kol’s voice trails off, and I catch the crimson flush spreading across his neck. Even in the grey morning light, he is breathtaking.
“Intense. Yeah.” I think back to the hours before. It wasn't exactly 'make-up sex,' but it was desperate. Urgent. We seem to translate our frustrations much better through friction than through vocabulary.
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