Damn hell, lookit what I found in the dumpster this time
could barely decipher the messy handwriting, especially with all the wilted lettuce and congealed nacho cheese stuck to it – no idea who wrote this or why or what it’s about but it’s kinda hot and way sweet ain’t it?
Another day, another blind item, another scramble to cover over the bullshit with more bullshit— but he doesn’t mention it and neither does she.
They work, it’s what they’re here for; she finishes an hour after he does, and the only thing that keeps her going is the thought of taking off everything (including the wig) and sinking into the big dumb bed that he insisted on having put into his trailer. He’d told the production people it was because he’s old and needs a nice firm mattress that his feet don’t hang off of, if they want him to be able to rest enough to give “a decent fucking performance.”
Little do they know, he’s given a lot more than a decent fucking performance in spaces as small as the second bathroom in a private jet …
But that’s neither here nor there. And who cares, because the little skip-hop in her heartbeat as she casually takes the steps to his door — nothing to see here, just a brief check-in before heading out for the night — makes her feel 24 again, despite the scars ancient and new, on both their hides.
She’s barely got the door closed behind her in the darkness when he reaches for her, wraps her in his arms and silences her greeting with a kiss so deep it nearly melts her bones.
Later, spent and drifting in and out of half-sleep, she opens her eyes to see him watching her in that keen possessive way that never fails to spark something unnameable, elemental inside her — a thing that sometimes feels like love, sometimes feels like terror.
She finds voice enough to ask: “Does it bother you?”
His eyes are solemn, serious, giving no quarter. He’s silent for a breath, then two.
“Does he have your heart?”
It’s such a ridiculous question that she wants to laugh, but that would do the kind of damage they might never recover from.
“No,” she answers, the truth coming out easily before this one-man judge and jury.
“Then no, it doesn’t bother me,” he says softly, reaching to cradle her face with such gentleness that she can’t help the tears that threaten to fall. His urgency is just that way, sometimes; it’s because of him that she knows what it’s like to be adored.
She closes her eyes, nuzzles into his touch. He pulls her to him, settles her against his chest, scrapes his nails lightly along her scalp. Tension leaves her body, tension she must’ve been holding onto for days. She’s suddenly exhausted, hurtling toward sleep — but for one more thing.
“You’ll wait?” she whispers, on the last threads of consciousness.
“I’ll wait,” he confirms, low and achingly sweet, the words barely more than breath in her ear. “I’ll wait.”