Say it. Why won’t you just say it?

Why won’t he just say it?

God, it’s so frustrating. You know why—you can’t just say it because what if it scares him off? You know you need to give him time. He’ll say the three little words when he’s ready to... won’t he?

It feels like he already does, in his own way. I mean, what else could it be? The little verses of poetry left beside your bedroll—waiting for you whenever he leaves in the morning to hunt—just so you won’t feel lonely when you wake up, even though he always makes sure to be back before you do. But just in case. And the wildflowers he always brings back from the forest. The way his rapier is always bowed toward you in battle, ready to be thrust between you and the threat—you don’t even think he realizes he does that. The mumbled praise while he drinks your blood. The way he always sits beside you around the campfire, no matter how many other companions are there.

And, of course, he’s always been a generous lover, but something has changed. His gaze lingers. His lips no longer rush.

You’re trying to make it obvious too—the paintings, the inconspicuous sketches. Eating better, just so your blood tastes sweeter. It’s always on the tip of your tongue, nestled between your ribs, begging to be let out.

But you can’t just tell him you love him. Not until you’re sure he won’t run. You have to remind yourself of that as you watch him read, his head in your lap, the rain beating against the tent roof. The fire kisses his skin a warm, incandescent orange.

He absentmindedly reaches out to grab your hand, kiss your palm, and simply keeping it there against his face...

God, he's not making it easy for you to not just blurt it out.