Growing up, asking was not something I was used to in many aspects. I take. My father taught me that if I want something, I just take it. And I do that. I fucking take what I want when I want it. This was how my world worked.
But right now, I ask Malia to choose me. I constantly say that I can just take her whether she likes it or not, but I really want to ask her right now because I respect her. My arms tighten around her, terrified that she'll say no, push me, and walk away.
She looks at me, her gaze deepening as if she's really considering doing that. Malia takes a breath—one that's too long, it starts to hurt me. She's hesitating. And now I'm the one not breathing. Just kill me. Because the only other way–if she doesn't choose me, I'd rather just die.
"Why?" she questions.
