He pushed himself off the bench.
“I didn’t do this for me. Adam, please. I did this for y—”
“I didn’t do this for me. Adam, please. I did this for y—”“Don’t – you – dare.”
“Don’t – you – dare.”Steel. Ice.
“You have no idea – no idea – how much I’ve done for you.”
“You have no idea – no idea – how much I’ve done for you.”“Wh – what does that mean?”
“Wh – what does that mean?”He stopped.
“Tell me,” the Pretender begged him. “Tell me what you mean…”
The Writer stood paces away from her, his shoes spattered by the damp grass. She fought to suppress the tears welling in her eyes, her words tumbling from her lips on instinct alone now, no longer attributable to considered thought.
But then, where he’s concerned, instinct is all I’ve ever needed…
But then, where he’s concerned, instinct
