And the window to his emotions is like a translucent piece of film tonight. He’s anxious. I feel it in the way his fingers gently tighten around my leg, soak it in as his pulse in his wrist flutters against the inside of my thigh, and see it in his clenched jaw and hardened eyes.
And what no one knows is the announcement was captured on camera.
Photo-worthy moment to be sure.
But what the photographer can’t capture is the weight flying off my chest, nor the heady euphoria clouding my brain.
And she sure as hell can’t capture an X-ray of my insides.
If she could, we’d all see the overload of dopamine flooding my heart, forcing it to grow triple in size. The organ wants to burst from behind my ribs and stay at Grant’s feet as I become completely transfixed by him.
He killed someone for me. Kept me safe. Fuck, I love him.
But while a devil is on one shoulder, the angel I haven’t heard in a while is there as well.
He took a life. Played God and decided when someone’s time was over. Something in the back of my head asks me if I can be okay sleeping next to someone who kills?
And skewed as the reply is, I tell that question of doubt that I think I can be okay sleeping with him—loving him—being inspired by him. And him killing may only amplify that feeling of acceptance.
All I need is a talk with Grant to confirm these earth-shattering ideas, which fight along the grain of this common, moral foundation.
I only hope that what Grant declared to me months ago is true—that his information is indeed mine—because if there’s ever a time I don’t need him to hide from me, it’s now.