Renna Rose Lancaster is the girl people stare at like she belongs in a glass case, carved with angel-soft beauty, a life airbrushed into unattainable perfection. But Renna knows perfection is nothing but a golden prison, coated in pretty lies that k...
"I wish you saw how you crash into my dreams like a wild storm that only feels like home.
I wish you saw the way your name breaks through my mind and knocks a grin right out of me.
I wish you knew how every single minute i'm away from you stretches out like a desert until you're back.
I wish you felt what it's like, the wildfire kicking up in my chest when my eyes catch yours.
I wish you knew your laugh, how it echoes in my head for days, how it makes the world feel lighter.
I wish there was a way to show you just how far i've fallen for you, how much of me has become yours, quietly, fiercely, without ever saying a word.
-To the girl who owns my every beat."
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I sprayed the bug repellent over Renna's arm, muttered under my breath, and accepted my fate like every morning demanded. The cabin was freezing, the woods were damp enough to drown a fish, and the midges outside were gathering like they'd been alerted the buffet was opening early.
And Renna refused to stand still. The universe could collapse, the cabin could catch fire, Cameron could come sprinting in screaming about mosquitoes eating his face, and she would still be posing in front of that cracked mirror like she was mid-shoot for some cursed magazine no sane person subscribed to.
"Hold still," I muttered, misting her again.
She held her phone higher instead, chin tilted, eyes half-lidded like she was the main character of a fever dream.
I spritzed another line down her neck. She flinched, not because it was cold, but because the spray made her glare at the screen.
"Aadam, stop," she snapped, waving her free hand. "You're disturbing my lighting."
"You're disturbing my will to live," I countered as I shoved her strap down her shoulder to reach the last stubborn patch of skin.
I rubbed the spray in, pushed the strap back up, and moved behind her to hit the back of her shoulders. She kept shifting angles, hair falling all over the place, skirt swishing because she couldn't stand still to save her life.
Her skirt was a crime scene of fabric. Layers of ruffles in some mutant pastel that couldn't decide if it wanted to be lavender or pink or whatever sickly shade happens when a cupcake has an identity crisis. It looked like someone took a bougie bedspread, shredded it in a tantrum, then stitched it back together while drunk.
The top wasn't any better. Cream, lacy, all tiny details I couldn't be bothered to name. It was basically a glorified napkin pretending to be clothing. The thing was held up by hope, good fortune, and the sheer bloody spite of whatever designer made it.
