Radiance seeped through the blinds, morphing golden streaks to curve, bend, follow the fullness of Celia's chest under the draped fibers. A luster that presently meshed with the wrinkled bedding when a determined hand hoisted her weight.

The other? A fraught hold of her world, of what's hers, and only hers.

"Don't tell me you're leaving again." Maybe it was her accusation—a claim rotting to be true—or the chokehold throttling your wrist, but you stopped—dropped the much-needed shirt for a day's ahead work.

Movements ceased. Words resumed.

"I have to go." A phrase drawing creases between her eyes. Ears behind strawberry, disheveled strands had long familiarized itself with your incentive. The reason of your unavailability. The missing space in her bed.

"Off to film your new movie, right?"

Gentle digits attempted to ring beneath her palm, dethrone its adamant crown in strangling your circulation. But no such force teared Celia's unyielding grip.

She won't let go.

Not now.

Not ever.

"Don't you think you've been spending too much time in that set?"

"Celia—please," a plea falling on deaf ears. "Let go."

"You're barely home nowadays," uttered she, bitterness barring every syllable. "Last time I checked, the maximum hours you can work is eight. Ten, max. But the whole damn day?"

What sort of blasphemy have you been reenacting when she wasn't a breath away?

"In those hours, what are you really doing? Acting? Getting to know your co-star?" Your male co-star.

"Screwing him behind my back? And for what, so you can prove to the whole nation you're not a dyƙè?" Diverting attention—a tactic you've rigorously imposed and a foolish strategy you've risked tainting your body with another's hand.

It makes her want to gag. Gag at the known fact you're partially hers. Body and mind, she never occupies your time entirely.

A vocal emotion teetered, faltering the pressurized grip, and misty-eyed, she voiced, "To prove you're not with me?" mid-sob.