Harvard Boy

The same now.

She remembers blue lights cascading her room as a child. Her father screaming, crying, and begging for help.

She remembers him trying to shield her mother's lifeless body from her.

The blood; the weight of it.

He held her in his arms whispering, praying; sobbing.

Police filed in; reports were made; hours passed.

Then it was gone; her mother was gone.

And so was her father; the life she knew.

Those moments were delicate, were shielded and protected by something greater.

A force maybe?

In a blink of an eye, everything changed, everything flipped and tilted into a frenzy of despair.

She'd decided to become a lawyer, to find some sort of release of these ties that have burrowed into her skin.

The pull of justice, or meaning.

To save the unsolved case of her murdered mother, to regain control of something she never had jurisdiction over anyway.

But now she's naked, under a man who she questions.

Who she loves, but can't understand.

May never understand.

She feels the same now, as she did when she felt the presence of her absent mother.

Sad, confused, scared.

But yet, the feeling isn't foreign to her blood anymore, it's actually acquainted; burrowed.

And she tries to think of anything she can do. Maybe join a self help group, drop out of Harvard, change her name, cut her hair?

"I'm sorry." He whispers, while nuzzling into the crook of her neck.

"You're always sorry."

There was a pained expression from her reply, but she couldn't see it in the dim lighted room.

"That's because I always fuck up."

"No." She turned to face him. "It's because you have no idea what you want."

The dark shadows illuminated her skin, showing some content of how she was feeling.

How much he's affected the girl he was never going to speak to.

The girl, with rosy cheeks and bad jokes, who preferred coffee over hot chocolate, and laughed at every story he bullshitted through.

He watched her orgasm beneath him moments ago, felt that connection; saw the passion in her eyes dwindle into shame, as she came down from her own pleasure.

Wondered how he hadn't noticed how beautiful she was until he'd kissed her, felt her, saw that buoyancy.

He wondered how someone could be so sinful and luscious, while so shy and ambiguous.

"Maybe..." His hands found her waist, letting his thumb rub absentmindedly against the skin there. "I don't know how to get what I want."

She met his gaze, biting her lip.

"Or maybe, I don't deserve it." He added, before capturing her teasing lips within his own.

(My heart hurts for Paris. I hope everyone's thoughts and prayers are with them. Thanks so much for reading, sorry for the wait.)