And just as I start to move past him, my hip accidentally rubs against his, and his face is so close, and his eyes so deep, that I can’t help but lift my fingers to his smooth, sculptured cheek. Then without even thinking, I close my eyes, lean in, and kiss him.

He looks at me, the light in his eyes fractures into millions of bits – a kaleidoscope of darkness that may never be fixed.

Family dinner. Seven-thirty sharp. Tie optional. Straight-jacker required.

Six hundred years is an awfully long time, Ever. So long it’s impossible for either of us to imagine. Though it is more than enough time to rack up a few dirty skeletons for the old metaphorical closet, right?

Damen’s The One. Always has been. Always will be.

Are you staring at me because you’ve seen my doppelganger roaming the halls, playing kind of the cafeteria? Or because you need to borrow a pencil and you’re too shy to ask?

After two solid weeks of waking up in Damen’s bed, wrapped in Damen’s arms, you’d think I’d have grown used to it by now. But nope. Not even close. Though I could get used to it. I’d like to get used to it.

Because I don’t have everything I want. Not even close.

So cute how you called out for Damen after conjuring that chaste little love scene in your head.

What we think about, what we concentrate on, will always, always, be reflected on the outside.