Olive stood there, her hands stuck in the dough, her skin tingling where his hands had been, her neck hypersensitive from the ghost of his breath. The girls' laughter echoed, but it was fond, not mocking. This was their normal. This was his normal. And she was utterly, completely unprepared for it.
She wasn't used to affectionate touch. In her old life, touch was either functional-a helping hand up-or punitive. This constant, casual claiming was a language she didn't speak. When he kissed her cheek, she stiffened. When he hugged her from behind, she held her breath. When his arm curled around her waist as they listened to the wireless in the evening, she became a statue of polite tension.
I don't write perfect characters; I write permanent ones. My stories belong to the women who refuse to apologize for their space and the men who understand that real strength doesn't need a label. You will find raw, flawed human beings navigating a world that misreads them. I write for the misunderstood, the morally complex, and everyone who knows that the best love stories are born from accountability, not fantasy.
Write a comment ...