Surrender

I'm sitting on his desk with my feet up, and I'm kissing Damien Ashford, and I'm thinking about all the ways this is wrong and dangerous and probably going to destroy me eventually.

And I'm thinking that I don't care.

He pulls back slightly and he's looking at me with an expression that I've come to recognize. It's the expression of someone who's found what they were building toward. It's the expression of someone who's succeeded beyond their own calculations.

"What are you thinking?" I ask.

"That you're the only ROI that ever mattered," he says.

"That's a terrible thing to say," I tell him.

"Yes," he agrees. "But it's true."

He kisses me again, and this time it's deeper. This time it's a declaration of something bigger than want. This time it's the beginning of something that I can't take back even if I wanted to.

My feet are still on his desk, and his hand is on my face, and the city is out there beyond the windows, and it feels like we've built something real on the foundation of something broken.

Maybe that's how love works. Maybe real love is built on the rubble of everything that came before. Maybe you have to be destroyed to have something that matters.

I don't know. I just know that I'm here. That I'm choosing him. That I'm surrendering to the inevitability of it.

And that feels like the only truth that matters anymore.

The city lights continue to blur into the darkness, and I'm in his office, on his desk, in his arms, and I'm finally somewhere that feels like home.

This is where we begin.

He pulls away and he's looking at me like I'm the only thing that exists in this moment. Like I'm the only ROI he's ever cared about. Like I'm the only investment that's ever mattered.

"I had a plan," he says. "I had a plan for how this would go. How I'd orchestrate meeting you. How I'd control the narrative. How I'd make sure you'd stay."

"And?" I ask.

"And none of it went according to plan," he says. "None of it worked the way I expected. You surprised me at every turn. You fought back. You refused to be controlled. You demanded honesty. You made choices that weren't in my plan."

"Was that a bad thing?" I ask.

"No," he says. "It was the best thing. It was the only thing that could have made this real."

He helps me down from the desk and I'm standing in his office, my feet on the ground, my hand in his.

"I'm going to hurt you sometimes," I tell him. "I'm going to be difficult. I'm going to have days where I wonder if this was a mistake."

"I know," he says. "And I'm going to let you have those days. I'm going to let you wonder. I'm going to let you question. Because the only way this works is if you stay by choice."

I'm looking at this man who's been obsessed with me for two years, who tracked me without my knowledge, who tried to build a trap and fell into it himself. I'm looking at this man who had a plan — who orchestrated and calculated and controlled every variable — and I'm holding that truth in both hands, turning it over.

I know what I want to say.

I know what the right answer is, the only answer that makes sense after everything we've survived together.

I'm standing in his office with my hand in his and the city burning behind the glass and I know exactly what comes next.

I just haven't said it yet.