Thank you for editing, Pixel.

*****

He lives down the hall from me. His hair is shaggy and blonde, sometimes hanging messily over his blue eyes. A scar splits his right eyebrow in half. Tattered jeans and block colored t-shirts appear to be the only clothing he owns.

He moved in a month ago and through gossip I've learned he's an amiable guy, working as a teacher. Mainly he keeps to himself. Something about him disturbs me—the way he walks, how his calculating blue eyes take in everything around him in one rapid swoop, the weird hours he keeps—but my landlady says he's a Good Guy.

I catch him one day, helping her climb the stairs. He doesn't speak to her but he gives her a smile before he walks away.

I wouldn't know what a "Good Guy" looks like, but I'll take her word for it.

-------

Everything goes in slow motion—cars passing in the street, mosquitoes buzzing in my ear at night, summer rain tinkling down whenever it gets too hot. Nothing much is happening, but that's how I prefer my summers.

I sit outside with the kids that live in my building on dry nights, teasing them and playing games. It's the most fun I have some days.

On this particular night, I'm smiling while a few girls play jump-rope and pretending not to notice the new guy as he ambles up the sidewalk.

The sun just went down but the heat is still hazy and cloying. Little droplets of sweat decorate my forehead, and just as I wipe them away, my eyes catch his. He's walking up the sidewalk, weaving through blankets of fireflies.

The first time he smiles at me, it's electric. Every vein sizzles with hot blood, every cell vibrates, and every breath shimmies out unsteadily. It's not even that he's good-looking, because I'm not so sure he is, but there's something about him.

One of the kids runs over with a ball in his hands. "Come play with us."

The man laughs. "It's a little hot for that, don't you think?"

But he takes the ball and tosses it around. I watch them play for a while, feeling strangely panicked. He hasn't really looked at me, and he certainly hasn't spoken to me, but I sense something revolutionary is about to happen. I don't really think I can deal with that. I'm not ready, and I'm not so sure I'll ever be.

He throws the ball to another child after a while and stands back, letting the kids enjoy their game. The girls giggle when the boys' game gets too close.

My whole body thrums with energy when he lowers himself down on the stoop next to me.

"They're great kids," he says.

"Yeah. Yeah, they are."

"I see you out here with them a lot. That's really nice of you."

"I don't mind."

We're quiet for a few minutes. It makes me a little depressed that I can't think of anything to say to him.

"You're a hairdresser, right?"

The question startles me and I look at him, face to face. He seems different close up. His nose has been broken countless times, I can tell, and his lips are almost too big for his face. His eyes are a disconcerting blue- not a crystal blue, but a dark, moody sapphire.

"There are a lot of very talkative ladies in this building. They say you're really good." His smile widens. "I could use a haircut."

"I work downtown." I take a deep breath and wonder if I should tell him the rest. A little bit of a breeze rustles through, catching his scent on a wave of air. I've never felt this way ... So off balance by someone's presence, and somehow addicted to the feeling. "Sometimes I do cuts in my apartment, though."

"Hmm. I might have to make an appointment, then."

-------

I don't see much of him the next few weeks. We smile when we pass one another in the hall, or on the street, and occasionally he says hello. I don't dare.

It's an Indian summer, but a crispness is invading the air, making me at once happy yet aching. I always feel a bit lost in the fall. September has set in, the leaves are beginning to fade, and the kids are back at school. He doesn't hang around so much anymore, busy with teaching. It dawned on me after we said our goodbyes that night I don't even know his name. I could ask around, but that feels too sad and clingy. It would undoubtedly get back to him, anyway.

Then, one rare Saturday when I don't have to go into work, I hear a light knock at the door.

He is on the other side, standing casually when I open it. A small smile curves his lips.

"Are you busy?"

My heart thuds. "Umm, not really."

"I was wondering if you could give me a haircut." He runs a hand through his hair, shuffling around the choppy layers, and gives me a big smile. "I'm becoming a bit too alternative for school."

I smile nervously and gesture him inside. He sits quietly while I gather everything I need, taking longer than usual because his presence knocks me off kilter.

"I don't want anything too drastic," he tells me. "Just something to make me look professional."

Normally I'd be amused at the hint of anxiety in his voice; he's concerned I might take too much off, I can tell. Being in the business this long has helped me decode "I want just a little off" as: "Please keep my hair completely the same."

He doesn't chatter while I mess around, and I'm grateful for that. Clients who talk my ear off make me go nuts sometimes. It's peaceful this way and I find myself relaxing. My shoulders drop, my stomach calms and the whole thing almost feels pleasant. I don't take too much off the length of his hair.

Then I'm finished. He runs his fingers through it. He takes a peek in the mirror I present him and grins at his reflection.

"Wow, I like it. It's still me." His eyes glide to my stare. "Thanks. You're really good at this."

I'm probably blushing but I don't care. "Thank you."

He puts some bills down on my table- more than I deserve- and stretches. His eyes assess me. The sensation of his cataloguing gaze both thrills and terrifies me.

"Wanna go for a walk with me?"

I blink at the question. I most certainly wasn't expecting that. Before I can think too hard about it, I hear myself consenting. "Sure."

"My name is Graham, by the way," he says once we're in the late Autumn sun. "I forgot to introduce myself. And you're Virginia, right?"

"Right." I'm surprised he knows my name. Maybe the fascination isn't one-sided. "People call me Ginny sometimes."

His smile is soft. "Good to know."

We drift down the sidewalk, crunching leaves below our feet. We don't need to talk and I like that. It's a little uncomfortable, but mostly it's exciting.

He tells me about school after a little bit. He loves being a teacher, but he doesn't even have to say the words. I can see how his eyes light up, how he uses his hands, how he laughs when he tells stories about his students. Then he says how hard it's been for him, moving out here to the city, away from everything he knew before.

"I like the city. But it's so lonely, sometimes, don't you think?" The way his eyes scan my face tells me he already knows my answer.

"Of course." I try not to sound too depressed.

"My sister keeps trying to get me to move by her. Some days I'm almost tempted."

He tells me a bit more about her, how they're really close, how he considers her his best friend.

"You're quiet," he says after a while. "Am I talking too much?"

I stare at the scar on his eyebrow. "Not at all. I like it."

Shockingly, I do like it. I like the tone of his voice, the way he smiles, how I can picture everyone and everything he talks about just by the descriptive words he uses.

"I'm from a very quiet family. It's nice to be around someone who doesn't mind talking."

Graham throws his head back and laughs. "Is that a polite way of saying I don't shut the fuck up?"

A small cautious laugh bubbles out of my chest. "Not at all! I really am enjoying your stories. I'm an only child so I never got to experience any of that. The closest I have is a cousin who I pretty much grew up with, but we're not so close anymore."

His amusement dies down and his eyes are doing that probing thing. "I'm not so close with the rest of my siblings anymore. I'm one of seven ... We all grew up and scattered across the world. We all have our own lives. One brother is actually in Africa right now."

"You must miss them."

He kicks a broken bottle out of our way. "Of course, but I was the youngest. I was kind of used to them not being around anymore. There's just my sister, Kate ... and even then, she has her own life now."

We pass by a pretzel cart and he stops, his eyes glowing. There's boyish delight in his expression and I feel myself grinning.

"Want one? I haven't tried one yet. I feel like a fraud."

I look from the cart back to him. "I've never had one, either."

His eyebrow goes up and he snorts in disbelief. "How is that possible? You're a New Yorker."

"I'm suspicious of street food."

His smile turns puzzling as he approaches the vendor. His eyes are still on me when he says, "Two pretzels, please." The man hands one over and Graham presents it to me.

"To trying something new," he toasts with a large smile before taking a huge bite out of his own.

"So tell me about you," he says a little while later. "You close with your parents?"

The sky is a little darker, preparing to drizzle any minute. Thankfully we're headed back to our building. "Not really. My relationship with my mom is complicated."

"Hmm." His expression reeks of pity. I can't have that.

"No, I mean ... She loves me. A lot. Too much, actually."

"You can love a person too much?" His smile makes me warm. It isn't a comfortable warmth, but it isn't unbearable, either.

"Of course. Absolutely. It can be smothering."

"You could be unloved," he points out.

I don't want to tell him I've been there, too. It's sad. I don't want to be sad today. Something about him cheers me up; I don't want to waste this high. So I just nod and change the subject and hold on to the good feeling like it's the only thing tethering me to this earth.

-------

A week later someone knocks on my door. I'm simultaneously hoping and dreading that it will be Graham.

I've thought of little else besides our little walk and it's driving me crazy. I don't have good luck with men. Actually, that's an understatement. I've been with addicts, losers, abusers and suffocating romantics. I don't trust anyone anymore, least of all myself.

But when I peek through my peephole and see Graham standing there, I can't help myself: I smile and blush. Drunken butterflies tumble through my stomach. I feel like I'm sixteen again, riding the back of Tom Daly's motorcycle. Except Graham isn't Tom—all pimples and hands where I don't want them. He's smiling softly on the other side of my door, waiting for me to open up.

So I do.

"Hey, Virginia. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. I would have called first but I don't have your number."

"That's okay. Come in."

He steps in but doesn't come in too far. "What are you doing for dinner tonight?"

My palms sweat and my heart pumps erratically. "I was just going to heat up some Chinese from yesterday."

"Unacceptable. A new Italian restaurant opened up five blocks from here. My buddy at work told me I have to try it." He runs a hand through his hair which already looks shaggy, in spite of the haircut I gave him. His blue eyes glitter when he gives me a puppy dog look. "Please don't make me go alone."

I want to go with him desperately. I want to be a normal girl who doesn't have to weigh all the ramifications of saying yes. Unfortunately the scars all across my body, and the scars that burn in my memory, remind me I'm not.

"I don't know ... I have a few things I have to—"

"Come on. If it sucks, I won't have anyone to complain with!" His smile is contagious, damn it. My lips tug up reluctantly. "Come with me. You won't regret it, Virginia."

-------

A few wines later, I'm relaxed. I know this because my tongue feels swollen and my body feels creamy and warm. I'm also talking—too much.

"So your dad is married to a girl two years younger than you?" Graham looks like he's trying to decide if that's funny or sad.

"Yeah. It gets worse, though. She was my college roommate."

Graham whistles. "That's rough. What about your mom?"

I wave my hand and swirl my red wine around. "She's a warrior. Nothing fazes her."

He looks like he wants to say something but offers one of his smiles, instead. "Are you guys close?"

"Nah. She doesn't really know how to deal with being a mother. Don't know if she knew how to deal with being a wife, either." I sip my wine and narrow my eyes at him. "You're making me talk too much."

He puts his hands up innocently and smirks. "Hey, it's only fair. I think the only thing I haven't told you yet is the time I paid Joey Crown to moon the whole class in the fourth grade and he got suspended for two weeks. I've felt guilty about that ever since."

Giddy, drunken laughter erupts from me. I smack Graham's shoulder, loving this feeling. His own tipsy laughter rings out, drowning mine.

He pays the check, ignoring my protests, and grabs my arm to help me up.

"You know," I tell him, dropping my head back to get a good look at him while we're this close, "you're not that bad looking."

He tries not to laugh. "Thanks, Gin. I appreciate that."

"No, really." My brain and tongue aren't working properly. Everything feels soggy. "I mean ... You are handsome. Kind of. When you want to be."

"Okay, I think we should take a break from the compliments," he laughs.

"Graham." It's the first time I've said his name and we both know it. "You really are. Because you're not. You know? You're really beautiful. You don't have to be nice to me, but you are. You don't have to play with that obnoxious kid in apartment 2-H, but you do because you know he doesn't have any friends."

His smile is all weird. Like he's forcing it, like he's really uncomfortable. Oh, God, I'm fucking this up!

"I mean that all your features are kind of mismatched but together they're so good. Do you know what I mean?"

Graham takes a deep breath and smiles on the exhale. "Yeah. Thank you. You're not so bad, yourself."

We start walking outside but my drunken self feels like she hasn't made her point—and worse, that she's insulted Graham. So Drunk Ginny decides to point out her own flaws.

"I have the biggest mole on my back. It's really gross, actually. When I was fifteen I seriously considered getting it removed."

Graham's bellowing cackle is loud and echoing through the street. "Oh yeah? That's kind of hot." He squeezes my arm. "You know, I'm impressed how clear you're able to speak when you're trashed."

"I'm not trashed." My heel decides to trap itself in a crack at that moment. "Just tired."

He crouches down to patiently maneuver my shoe out of trouble. He breathes out a hot laugh against my leg and I shiver.

"You're a funny girl, Virginia. A wasted girl, but a funny one, nonetheless."

We're having a moment. There's nothing but the way his dark blue eyes look in the gauzy light, the sensation of his fingertips on my bare ankle and the irregular thump of my heartbeat.

Slowly he stands, keeping eye contact. I'm sure he's going to kiss me, and maybe it's the wine or the fun I'm having, but I'm not completely panicking at the prospect. Then he shocks the hell out of me; he steps back.

"We should get back. It's late."

The way I'm feeling now is kind of hard to explain. You know how when you're just drifting off to sleep, into a really fabulous dream, and your whole body jerks awake? It feels like that, only worse because now we have to walk home coated in the awkwardness of our almost kiss. He won't even look at me.

He tries making small talk on the short walk back, but neither of us is paying attention. Our lit up apartment building is a lighthouse. I can't wait to run up to my apartment, sink into a hot bath, and try to forget all about the stupid, crushing disappointment. I never should have allowed myself to hope, to depend on another person for companionship.

I have my foot raised to take the first step up to our door when his hand on my elbow stops me.

"Wait. Ginny, wait."

Like a fool, I do. I can already hear the speech he's about to make. Maybe he has someone home. Maybe he can't forget, like me. Whatever it is, I'm grateful for it. I can't make another false start in my life. I won't.

He isn't talking. Impatiently I turn my head, about to spew out everything I'm thinking for once, when his hot lips meet mine. It's a shock and I try to pull back, but he doesn't stop. He tugs me closer to his body, running his hands up my back. One cups the back of my neck; the other drags over the side of my face.

His tongue flirts across my bottom lip. It's subtle but I can sense the question here: "Is this okay?"

It is. My mouth sighs and he's inside, giving and taking. The kiss turns rough and altogether undefinable. He bites and soothes and groans. His hands never stray; he doesn't touch anywhere inappropriate. Still, the hunger he feels is evident in every tongue stroke, in every deep sound from his throat.

I forget I'm me, I forget about my past, I forget that I vowed I'd never be a "funny girl" to anyone ever again. I forget that I could get hurt, that this isn't what I want, that I'm terrified of him.

I just forget.

-------

But the next morning I remember.

I glance at my reflection when I wash my hands and see my swollen lips and everything I tried to suppress comes back like a rubber band. And it stings. I'm the woman who had to move to a huge city because she desperately wanted to be swallowed up. I'm the girl who ran away from her boyfriend who thought it was fun to use her as his stress relief. I'm the idiot who bailed exes out of jail, who ignored the depletion of her bank account, who always turned into a fool for love. I can't do it again. I won't.

There's a knock at my door and now I just feel dread. I know who it is and I just want him to go away. He likes me—the pieces I've let him see—and I like the pieces of himself he's shown to me, too. Now I'm going to hurt him. But it's for the best, really, because soon we'll have to show all of ourselves to each other and it might be too late.

He comes again that night and calls my name softly from the other side of the door. He leaves a note under it.

Ginny,

My friend suggested an Indian place on the other side of town. Be my date tomorrow night?

Also, here's my cell number. Can't believe I keep forgetting to ask for yours.

-Graham

I throw it out.

The next afternoon, he comes home from work at the same as I do. His grin is huge and happy to see me. He's making it so much harder.

"Hi," he says. He's breathless from jogging up to me. "You never called."

"Sorry. I only saw your note this morning."

He swallows and I watch his Adam's apple bob. "That's okay. So, what do you think. Are we going Indian tonight?"

There are so many things I could say. I know that I want to say yes, but it just won't work. It won't stay this way forever. Graham might not be anything like the string of skeletons in my closet, but it's enough that I have them.

"I'm sorry," I hear myself saying. The words are flat and dry. "I can't."

"We can go tomorrow." Graham shrugs and ruffles his hair. "No big."

"I mean I can't go out with you."

His expression morphs into one of confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not looking for a boyfriend."

He shifts his messenger bag to his other shoulder. "Virginia, I just want to get to know you. Just be your friend." He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "And I'm sorry about the kiss. It was too soon."

"This isn't about the kiss. I just—"

"We'll be friends." His smile is wide and warm. "Let's be friends. Please."

I huff impatiently. "Graham, I—"

"Please," he repeats. His smile fades and his eyes grow more serious. I look over his features, wondering how I ever thought him anything less than beautiful. "I could really use a friend right now and I think you could, too."
A part of me bristles at that comment, but another, larger, needier part fucking blooms when he says that. Before I know what I'm doing, I hear myself whisper, "Okay."

His hot lips kiss my cool cheek. It's dry and short, but it excites me. I feel like I could live through eternity if only I could get a kiss on my cheek every now and then from Graham. And that's when I realize I'm truly pathetic.

-------

November brings with it an unexpectedly large snowstorm. I play sad music and look at the snowflakes that listlessly drop down in lazy heaps.

The weeks since Graham and I established our friendship have passed slowly and sometimes painfully. It's strange how I can both crave and dread his company. Nearly every night he shows up at the door of my apartment, either holding take-out or offering to take me out to a new restaurant. It's confusing to me because of how I feel; I don't want, or need, more than a friend, but I desire more from him. I don't want a hug goodnight, or a kiss on my forehead, or a harmless squeeze on my wrist. I'm not entirely sure what I want but it's more. It's definitely more.

And that scares the fuck out of me.

More can't possibly be good for me. Even if it was, I'd never know how to ask for it. I couldn't. I can't. So I don't.

Tonight I'm supposed to be going to this really great new restaurant with him but I have a headache brought on my confusion and my own induced angst. I try to fight against this, but I don't know what else to do. So I call my mom.

"Ginny?" That's how she always answers her phone and it makes me feel guilty. It's the response of a mother who knows her child is constantly in trouble, perpetually sad and in need of a pick-me-up. There's always worry in that one utterance of my name, with a tinge of hope, like maybe I'm calling to say I'm all better finally. The fear wins out every time, though, because she's never had a reason to hope for me.

"Hi, Mom."

"How are you? You haven't called in a few weeks."

She's not trying to sound accusatory, but I hear blame in her words anyway. Sometimes it's easier to be angry with someone than to love them.

"I've been really busy, Mom," I sigh. "I'm just calling to ask you something."

"Anything," she breathes.

"There's this boy that lives in my building..."

For the next twenty minutes Mom gives me excited directions, sounding every bit like a sixteen year old girl. I appreciate it, and I tell her so just before Graham is due to pick me up.

"Oh, honey. I'm just so happy that this is what you wanted to ask me. It's time. It's definitely time for you and I'm so happy."

When Graham comes to get me for dinner out at a new Japanese place, I'm still smiling.

He picks up on my mood immediately. His answering grin curls my toes. "Wow, if I knew you had such a thing for sushi I would have brought it up forever ago."

Dinner is fabulous. It might be the best I've eaten in a long time. I know I'm laughing more than usual tonight because Graham is watching me far too closely, drinking in each of my grins with an unnatural amount of satisfaction and affection. I love it, and I'm not about to tell him off for it.

When we're standing on the steps to our apartment building, I move to kiss him. He welcomes it, running his hands up my back. He pushes me against the door, ignoring the catcall of one of our neighbors smoking a couple of feet down the block.

"Graham." My gasp of his name makes him shudder. "Maybe we should go inside."

He all but drags me into the building and up the stairs to his apartment. "Sorry about the mess," he breathes. I think he meant to laugh.

His lock is undone and the door creaks open but I don't have a second to acclimate. Graham is on me, pushing me into his wall.

"You taste so good." His voice is low and gritty and doing strange things to my body. "I love it."

One of his hands travels down my body, catching on my breast before tugging down, down, down. It lingers on my hip, pressing into the bone. I know he's waiting for me, per usual. Waiting for me to beg, to give my permission, to kiss him. I don't know. I just know he wants something.

My hips involuntarily shift up, brushing against his hard-on. He moans into my lips and clutches my ass.

"God. You're so good."

Those words make me freeze. I've heard them before, helpless in the dark beneath a man whose breath stunk of stale beer.

He thrusts against me, but I don't want this. Not anymore.

"Stop."

And just like I know he will, he moves away. "I'm sorry," he pants. "Too fast?"

All the advice my mom gives me, all the prep talks I've prepared, vanish the moment my fear grabs hold of me. I can hardly look at him. It's not his fault. It's not even him.

But it is too fast. Too much.

I heave in oxygen, but it's no matter; I can't breathe.

I don't want to feel again. I don't want to need him, ignoring a voice inside of me that says I already do.

"I should go home," I hear myself whisper.

Graham straightens out my dress and I love him for it, but not enough to get over my own shit. "Ginny."

"I'm not looking to just fuck someone, Graham. I'm not that hard up for company." As I said earlier, sometimes it's easier to be angry.

He backs away from me, wounded. "You know that's not what I want from you."

"Isn't it?"

"No!" He paces away from me. "God. I would hope you'd know by now what I want from you."

I stomp my foot like a child. "I have no idea. A fuck buddy? It's convenient, too, because I'm in the same building!"

He moves closer to me, looking down at me blankly. "Wow. I didn't know you thought of me like this."

I step away from him without looking into his eyes, because then I know I'll be a goner, and frantically tear open his door. I hear my footsteps echo in the hallway and desperately long for his door to slam shut—and pray he'll come for me. But he doesn't. He doesn't come to get me, because he probably doesn't understand (not that I can blame him), and he doesn't slam his door, either. I can feel his eyes watch me as I make my way down the hall, wishing with every step I could be the kind of woman to turn back around.

I't's cold in my apartment. Far too cold. I yank out an old blanket, wrap it around me and turn on crappy late night TV. It's nearly 3AM when it dawns on me everything I did tonight was pointless and I burst into tears.

Without realizing it, I've become that girl again—the girl who wants, who needs, who loves.

The girl who has always gotten me into trouble.

-------

The next night I'm eager for destruction. I put on a short dress, one I'd hidden in the back of my closet, and I smear lip gloss over my lips. A friend of mine—who isn't really a friend—invites me out after I finish cutting her hair.

I can't resist, especially because I spent most of the night before fighting the impulse to run up to Graham's apartment, my sanity be damned. So I go out, pretending to laugh at all the right moments, trying to ignore how lonely and miserable I feel.

Then I'm angry with myself. How can I miss Graham already? I don't; it's a weird misfiring of my brain. I'm going crazy. It's not him at all, not really. I keep repeating that with every vodka I chug.

Someone's hands are on my waist. His hard dick is pressing into the thin fabric covering my ass. He's sweaty, and he groans into my ear.

"What's your name, baby?"

"I'm No-one," I tell him. He laughs and it's all wrong but I don't move away.

We get lost in a sea of swarming bodies, of people who are all a little lost themselves. The bass vibrates through my body and the guy behind me thrusts into me to the beat. It's disgusting and disorienting but it's what I want. It's what I need. He won't care about me, or my scars, or if I cry when he fucks me.

After a few more drinks and a couple more songs, he asks me to go back to his place. He's smirking, eying me like a hard-won prize. Or maybe more like an easy-won prize. He thinks he's going to use me tonight; he has no idea how much I'm using him. In the foggy drunkenness of my brain, I rationalize it would be better to go back to my apartment. I drag him behind me, ignoring the thumbs up of the girl who brought me here.

A cab is waiting and I have a moment of self-preservation. I push the nameless guy away and get into the cab alone.

"What the fuck? What are you doing?"

I ignore him, hearing him call me a bitch from down the street.

I'm not really present for the cab ride home, but I come back as I'm tripping up the stairs. One of the guys who live two floors below me pops his head out the door. He looks at me, wasted and dressed like a slut, and I can almost taste his judgment. He shuts me out and I keep on walking.

My door is fuzzy when I get upstairs and I can't seem to open it. My key clatters to the floor and everything becomes too much. I collapse, sobbing and lost.

Graham steps out of his apartment and catalogues the situation immediately. My dress has ridden up, leaving my thonged lower half completely exposed. My lipstick is all over my face from the sloppy kisses of the guy before, and mascara has leaked down my cheeks. How humiliating.

He gazes at me for a moment, his eyes soaking me up. He's expressionless and that's terrifying.

Then he comes over and hugs me close to his chest, soothing me with words I can't decipher. Snot runs out of my nose and I choke on tears. I realize I keep saying "I'm sorry".

"Stop, Virginia, it's okay now. It's all right. I've got you. It's okay. I've got you now."

He takes my key from my shaking hands and unlocks the door. We fall into the little hallway of my apartment and he shuts the door. I sink down to the hardwood floor and he follows, cradling me in his arms.

"I'm so sorry," I say again.

"Shh. It's okay." He kisses my forehead.

We sit there forever, him rocking me, me whimpering and trying to apologize. I can feel him watching me in the dark, even if I can't see his face, but this time it doesn't bother me. This time I'm just happy he can even bear to look at me. And I'm hoping those sapphire eyes will see through me and know that this wasn't me at all.

Or at least, not who I want to be.

-------

The next morning my eyes are red but thankfully dry. Graham is asleep in my bed. I take a moment to appreciate him and then I kiss the scar on his eyebrow.

I get up to make coffee for us. It's surreal to be doing this, to have him in my apartment, especially after everything that happened last night. I can't help but be hopeful.

"Hung over?"

I jump and glance up at Graham leaning against the wall, a small smile curving his lips.

"A little. I deserve it."

He walks over to me and, without warning or hesitation, kisses my temple. Warmth blossoms in my chest and jolts of pleasure snap down my spine, fizzling out in my toes. "No, you don't."

He pulls away with a strange smile and pours some coffee into one of the cups I pulled out.

"About last night—"

"You apologized enough. Let's forget it."

"But I wanted to explain that—"

"You don't need to explain. I see you, Virginia." He takes a gulp of coffee, letting his eyes drift down my body. It isn't a heated glance. It isn't sexual at all. "You're a warrior, just like you said your mom was. I think you've been through a lot. I think you've had a real hard time of it. And I think you don't know how to let yourself be happy, even if happiness knocked on your door."

He gives me one of his great smiles and lowers his mug. "I guess it's a good thing I'm so persistent. I don't care how many times you tell me to leave, I'm not going anywhere. I like you. A lot. I didn't think that would be possible for me, but I want to know you." He shifts a little, looking uncertain and vulnerable for the first time since I met him.

His hand fists a lock of my hair. "I still want to know you. And I want to take care of you, if you'll let me." He kisses my nose. "Please, just let me."

-------

That night, he comes over after work and tells me about his ex-girlfriend. He broke up with her because he said there was nothing worse than being loved by someone who you didn't love back. Before, I'd argue it was way worse to be the unloved one, but his earnestness proves it's just as tortuous. Tears prickle my eyes when he tries to convince me how hard he tried to love her.

"Every morning, I'd stare at her at breakfast and tell myself to love her," he tells me. His smile is sad, laced with regret. "I just couldn't. She was such a good woman ... I hurt her so much." His gaze is like a kiss when it settles on me. "But she just wasn't the one."

He says he's a disappointment to his family, and that's really why he moved.

"I thought I was broken. That I couldn't feel things correctly," he whispers. I nuzzle into his neck, telling him without words I felt the same way. "Sometimes when I looked at them, I couldn't help but wonder if they felt the same way."

"I've never known a person who felt more than you," I say. He laughs and drags his hand up my arm, inviting goosebumps to raise all over my flesh.

"It's your turn." He flips my hand over and lays an open-mouthed kiss on it. "Your turn for the soul-baring."

I try to pull my hand back but he's too strong, and my will is too weak. "What do you want to know?"

"Why you look like you hate to be touched. Why you tried to ditch me. Why you don't like talking about yourself."

Swallowing, I try to smile. "Oh, that's all?"

"No more hiding. You don't do that great a job of it, anyway." Graham meets my eyes. "Just give a little of yourself to me, Ginny. I'll try not to ask too much. I just need to know you. Why you're fighting this."

I don't want to say anything, but I don't want to be alone anymore. I want him.

"I've just been lost for a long time. I haven't had a lot of luck with love."

He snorts and caresses my back.

"No, really," I tell him. I take a deep breath and prepare to do for him what I haven't done for anyone in a long time. I'm going to let him see me—really see me.

I lift my shirt up over my head, ignoring his gasp, and throw it to the floor. Shifting so my back is to him, I take another slow, calming breath and wait.

I know what he sees: a highway of scars and smoothed over gashes. A literal roadmap of pain. A museum of battle scars and broken hearts and pleas that went unanswered.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't do anything at first. Then he touches me and I crumble. Tears are already dripping from my chin. He turns my body around and envelops me into his body, absorbing me. His lips drop down to my shoulders.

"I'm here." His voice is calm. Sure. Rock-steady. "I'm here now."

-------

"And how'd you get this one?" he asks. His thick, calloused finger runs along the old scar on my shoulder blade.

Images of belt buckles flying through the air come back to me and I hold my breath.

"Won't you tell me?" His lips kiss it and I shiver.

Sometimes it's too late for a kiss to make it all better, like how it's too late now, but I love him for it. My eyes tear up because he's told me everything about himself and I can barely share a five minute story with him. We're both naked now, literally and figuratively. It's not fair to him and for the millionth time, I hate that I'm like this.

"I can't." My voice is broken and breathy. "I'm sorry."

And just like always, he understands. His hand curves up my forearm, over my elbow, and rests on my upper arm. It pushes my body closer to him, cocooning me into his side. I feel his lips on the top of my hair, pressing another kiss down.

"Shh. It's okay. There's no rush." His other hand lifts to touch my face. The feeling of his fingertips skimming my jawline make my eyes flutter. He puts a little pressure on my chin so I look up. "There's no rush."

As he kisses me again, moving his warm lips against mine, I sigh and let him comfort me. I can't resist it. He's worn me down; I've worn me down. Our affection, possibly love, has won. I'm not sorry for it.

"Touch me?" I ask.

He doesn't ask me if I'm sure because he knows I wouldn't have suggested it in the first place if I wasn't.

His body cloaks mine, ever protecting. Ever loving.

His heated length slides over my thigh and aligns with the wetness I haven't felt in ages. His nose, broken a dozen times over, bumps into mine affectionately.

"You ready?"

"Graham," I breathe.

Then he's inside of me, sliding and thrusting. It is so astoundingly beautiful, so absurdly wonderful, I begin to cry.

He notices and kisses the trails of tears. "God," I laugh, wiping a tear away with a tut of annoyance. "I'm such a woman."

Graham pushes a bit harder, making me gasp, and toys with my nipple. "Mmm, yes. You are."

The sun comes up at some point. I'm only aware of it because of how his blonde hair glints in the fresh sunlight, how suddenly the shadows of his body become clearer, how I can see every delicious twist of his face.

No words are spoken. Nothing conversational or erotic or confessional. None of that is necessary now. This isn't about dirty fucking, or merely getting off. It's about healing and learning all the secrets we hide from the rest of the world. It's enough to feel every silky slide of our stomachs against one another, every breathtaking pulse of his cock inside me, every meeting of our lips and frantic tug of our tongues.

As the passion grows, our bodies become more frantic. Graham's motions are faster and my moans turn to whimpers. His mouth possesses my breast, whispering secrets to it while his tongue coats the nipple in deliciously wet circles.

My body gives no warning when it's about to come. It just happens. Graham lifts his head, sensing the tightening of my muscles, and smiles softly. His lips are wet, his hair is every which way. He kisses me deeply, murmuring something into my mouth. I hold onto it, pulling and tearing, as everything inside of me seizes and releases.

Years of loneliness, of fear, of pain, of frenetic worry, surge out of my body and into the atmosphere. Something has happened to me. I feel free. Wonderful.

My body is just bones and muscles and heart as Graham searches for his own ecstasy. I detail every twitch of his face as he reaches it, surging inside of me.

When he kisses me slowly afterward, finally falling to my side but grabbing me close, I know he's free, too.

-------

"I'm sorry? Can you say that again, Ginny?"

I grin at Graham who is whipping us up some pancakes a few mornings later. He's probably going to be late for work again but everything about him is so unhurried, unconcerned. He notices me watching him and he can probably hear my mother's shriek of disbelief.

"Sure, Mom," I say to the phone. "You need to put out another plate for Christmas. I'm bringing a date."

"Well, sure, Ginny. I had no—well, sure. Sure. I mean ... Who is this guy? You haven't—oh, that's wonderful. Honey, I'm so excited!"

I'm laughing as Graham kisses me goodbye, whispering he'll see me later.

-------

I sit on the stoop waiting for Graham to come home. He spots me as he comes down the sidewalk but he doesn't rush. His smile is slow and perfect, and just for me.

We don't say hello when he finally meets me. He sits down next to me, takes my hand and gives me a kiss that's far better than hello.

Some kids playing outside yell "ewww!" at our kiss and we grin at them. We watch them for a bit, throwing snow at one another and enjoying themselves.

It begins to flurry. I can feel the cold through my bones, so I burrow into his warmth. It'll be a tough season, they say.

I'm not worried.