He’d been writing for over an hour, and I would interrupt his latest idea to read out loud without asking permission. I knew he found it romantic and I knew he’d want his wife to read to him someday; on the porch of their country home, surrounded by acres of green; on an island far away from the things he was afraid of, where people were scarce and love was plenty; or maybe right here in his room…both of us watching the seasons change and gripping fiercely the hope that our feelings never will. 

Because of the nature of her occupation, Madeline Hayward was an expert at empty promises.  Then Boris Hull called, and she never lied again.  

“Let’s run away,” she said, tangling her legs in his, “and do something self-destructive.”

He kissed her forehead.  “I think we already are, sweetheart.”

I'll Post the Rest When It's Not Complete Shit.

“We should talk like this more often.”

“I know, dear.” She traced his face, her favorite picture, and put it in her pocket.