Promise Me
- Reads 769
- Votes 20
- Parts 13
I go to speak and suddenly my back is against my door and his hands are on my hips. His lips only centimeters from mine. What is he doing?
His eyes are piercing into mine and I feel like I can't breathe. I haven't felt his touch in so long. I haven't been this close to him since he left. I take in his scent and I'm transported back to the 15-year-old girl I used to be. Though now he smells like vanilla I can still smell the faintest bit of mint. He always smelled like mint. My thoughts are scrambling all together and he rests his forehead on mine, takes a deep breath, and backs away.
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A scent. A scar. A slow-burning fucking romance dressed as nostalgia. It started with a fruit. Not love, not sex - a goddamn strawberry. The kind that looks like it's been kissed by every shade of red your childhood never had. He didn't share it. Didn't speak of it. Just tasted it once, and carried the ache ever since. Years later, she walked in - smelling exactly like that forgotten sweetness. Not perfume. Not fantasy. Just... truth. Sharp, quiet, terrifying truth. The kind that crawls under your skin and whispers remember me when you least want to. He lied to her face. About himself. About the million ways he'd already started unraveling. But she knew. Women like her always know. She stared at him like sin dressed in judgment - and touched his wrist like she already owned his pulse. And he? He was fucked. Because she wasn't just beautiful. She was red. That memory. That craving. And no matter how much he pretended to be in control - she was already in his bloodstream. This isn't a love story. It's a slow possession. By scent. By memory. By her. And it ends exactly how it starts - with him on his knees, and her smelling like fucking strawberries.
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