Sir playboy

T w e n t y - o n e

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"I want you to move in with me".

The same sentence rang through my head all night. It's all I could hear. Should I? Would we really last?

What if we move in together and then he comes out as a serial killer like Ted Bundy and saws my head of with a hacksaw?
Then what? TheN I'M FUCKING DEAD.

The pros would be that I would have an endless supply of my underwear at his house, so I don't have to keep going home to get some.
What am I talking about?
I basically already live there.
But I don't.
It's not official, moving in would make it real.

I've stayed at his house almost every night for the past 8 months, so why am I so worried?

Maybe we're moving too fast?

Maybe it's too much commitment.

Maybe he'll grow tired of me.

Maybe he wants me to move in so that he won't be seen near my peasant apartment ever again.

Maybe.. maybe.. maybe...

And then it was 4am.
The tears had dried up and Marks arms were fastened tightly around his small frame.

(I NEED TO STOP WRITING OTHER STORIES WHILST POSTING ANOTHER ONE OMGGGG)