CLAIRE
The moment I believe he’s no longer outside my door, I seize the closest pillow and press it against my face. Then I scream. I mean really scream. Not a cute, frustrated little "ugh," but a full-bodied, muffled, primal scream that reverberates through my ribs and finally releases all the tangled emotions clawing beneath my skin. Sure, my ankle hurts. But that’s not the reason I’m losing it. No, I’m screaming because I had to accept his help.
Again. Because Eros Asante bore my weight. Because his hand rested on my waist, his arm encircled my shoulders, and his fingers touched my ankle. Because he gazed at me as if I wasn’t a burden, a disaster, or a walking warning sign, but rather his responsibility. And the most frustrating part? He was kind in a way that didn’t seek permission.
