I knew he had it.
Lochlan came in, looking disheveled, bloodied knuckles, rip on his shirt, grass stains on his clothes and more grass in his hair, sparks flying from his eyes and his fingertips too as he struggled to extinguish his ire while it continued to flare around him, barely checked.
Sam's right.
It's not his call to make.
Right. It's MINE, Bridgie. MINE. If you're scared you come to me. ME. Not him. Not Sam. ME.
Is...Caleb...alright?
Of course he is. But I asked him nicely to let go of it and he didn't. So I made him. He throws me my soul, underhand, just as gently as the way I gave it away and I fumble, grazing it with my thumb. It falls to the floor and rolls under the dishwasher door, opened to load. Breakfast was an hour ago. No one cleaned up their dishes. Maybe they couldn't see them for the smoke, I don't know but I tidied up the kitchen on my own.
He slams the door and picks it up again and pushes it right through me where it comes up against scar tissue and character and holds fast.
Leave it. Or I'll eat it.
The visual on that is incredibly tempting.
Bridget, you can't drag Sam down with you.
Who's dragging who? It's a challenge. After all, I wasn't the one who pinned Sam up against his desk yesterday, hiking up his dress, was I?
He stares at me. Here comes the grimness, only his is trimmed in sparks. They're like fairy lights, a halo around him that elevates him high above everyone else here. He makes me crazy. He makes me want to run away for the intensity. For if I give in, he'll probably die. He catches my unspoken thought in a flame, as if by, no, definitely by magic.
But you did, and I didn't.
You only think I did.
Prove it. Prove you haven't.
I did that yesterday.
And? Did it work?
Of course not.
Lochlan came in, looking disheveled, bloodied knuckles, rip on his shirt, grass stains on his clothes and more grass in his hair, sparks flying from his eyes and his fingertips too as he struggled to extinguish his ire while it continued to flare around him, barely checked.
Sam's right.
It's not his call to make.
Right. It's MINE, Bridgie. MINE. If you're scared you come to me. ME. Not him. Not Sam. ME.
Is...Caleb...alright?
Of course he is. But I asked him nicely to let go of it and he didn't. So I made him. He throws me my soul, underhand, just as gently as the way I gave it away and I fumble, grazing it with my thumb. It falls to the floor and rolls under the dishwasher door, opened to load. Breakfast was an hour ago. No one cleaned up their dishes. Maybe they couldn't see them for the smoke, I don't know but I tidied up the kitchen on my own.
He slams the door and picks it up again and pushes it right through me where it comes up against scar tissue and character and holds fast.
Leave it. Or I'll eat it.
The visual on that is incredibly tempting.
Bridget, you can't drag Sam down with you.
Who's dragging who? It's a challenge. After all, I wasn't the one who pinned Sam up against his desk yesterday, hiking up his dress, was I?
He stares at me. Here comes the grimness, only his is trimmed in sparks. They're like fairy lights, a halo around him that elevates him high above everyone else here. He makes me crazy. He makes me want to run away for the intensity. For if I give in, he'll probably die. He catches my unspoken thought in a flame, as if by, no, definitely by magic.
But you did, and I didn't.
You only think I did.
Prove it. Prove you haven't.
I did that yesterday.
And? Did it work?
Of course not.