Your tenderness—soft, untainted, pure. He wants to drown in your sweetness, as after a long starvation, but such rare flowers cannot be torn, even if the flower is very eager to be picked. When his lips touched yours, with the tenderness of butterfly wings against petals, all the planets lined up in a row, and the universe collapsed.

He loved. Loved as the moon loves the Earth, as a sandy shore loves the salty waves, but even the satellite moves away from the planet, and the coast waits for the tide. Theodore is the beginning of thirst and the eclipse. Ten kisses, but even they do not change the laws of his personal universe. Three steps forward to then take five back; cat making his way to a neighboring dormitory in the darkness of the corridors.

You're unbearable.

Your words are like nicotine smoke, and Theo inhales them greedily, smiling against your lips. Inhaling them deeper until they scratch his lungs, digging a hole for his love. Then to claw you apart and put you back together again in the dark, stuffy room.

Cats need affection, tender touches, and attention. But you get scratches on your heart, unhealable and painful, and then the warmth disappears from your lap, dissolving and making you wait—because even after a hundred attempts, there is still hope for success. You're not like that; more like a faithful dog watching out for a fire that's already going out.

"You know, you're free to leave if you don't like it," a defensive whisper, an excuse for another betrayal—but what promises does he keep if there are no limits and boundaries? Unbound by anything but silent kisses.

Complicated, tangled—a tangle of intertwined secrets. Why leave when it's so good to be together? Your lips ask to stay. And just for now, he doesn't slip away, soothes you with an aftertaste of mocking your weakness. Need—weakness; attachment—hurt.

"But you don't have to leave," he whispers, covering the softness of your skin with his palms. "It's not that I don't like you."