Page 17 of Deranged Imposter

“On the scale of liquid helium to Nava Viper pepper, how are you feeling about this?” she probes as I shut the bedroom door.

“Volcanic,” I reply truthfully.

The fire in my stomach thrashes and twists, wishing to have an outlet to put this discontentment.

“I’m sure her intentions are pure,” Isa defends the nameless woman, her hair curtaining the pillow after I throw her on the bed. “A little pushy, but harmless.”

I climb on top of her, hovering momentarily to read the sheepishness of her beautiful features.

She used to flail and stutter when I shared a bed with her, claiming it was wrong for me to be this close as a friend.

Over time, her body recognizes mine as a safety net when she sleeps. Not long after muscle memories set in, she started to burrow into the lines and grooves on my frame.

Patience paid off, and I’m glad I trusted my instincts.

“I have my own bed,” she insists, eyes trained onto the ceiling as I lay on my side to curl into her body.

“This is yours.” I free a forlorn breath when she turns to glare at me.

I throw a heavy arm over her chest, fingers instinctively crawling to her neck to feel her pulse. One inch from our noses touching, two mirrored smiles, and three heartbeats off rhythm—this is love.

Love doesn’t hurt; her eyes are where love bleeds prismatic hues of saturated acceptance and iridescent sensitivity. I’m healing with jagged pieces in places that don’t fit, but it’s not so terrifying to admit they’ll never be seamless.

“Are you mad?” she whispers into the midnight hour.

A small finger traces up to my jaw, pausing by my ear, then letting the comforting weight of her knuckles sit on my neck.

Does she hope our hearts align like the fool in me does?

Isa anticipates an answer I don’t have, but she reads me perfectly. Her eyes soften, and my veins carry a drop of corruption.

“Are you going to bully me into paying rent?” she prods in lieu of the previous one.

“No,” I reject promptly, still barely a whisper, and smile. “But I’ll settle for dinner.”

“Am I the chef?” she jokes, giggling. “Where’s my ‘kiss the chef’ apron?”

“I don’t cook.” My thumb rubs the supple skin on her cheek, pleading the greedy fingers to not drag her in for a taste of ambrosia.

“You don’t want to learn either,” she jibes, earning a half-attempted frown from me. “It’s a good life skill.”

Not a bad idea, though.

A pleasant morning with her rolling out of bed in my shirt, hair putting a nest to shame, and mumbling a slurred greeting. I would be plating breakfast in the same way she does, but bare-chested because she has wandering eyes. Before we sit down and enjoy breakfast, she comes up behind me for a hug while complaining about gross bird sounds and cold sheets.

It’s a divine picture, one I want to start working to make real.

“I like it when you make them,” I approve while lazily zoning out. “Fits my taste.”

She laughs airily, and it brings an avalanche of emotions. I see my reflection in her glimmering eyes, and she must notice the restless vigor in mine.

Love, yes.

Obsession, maybe.

Insanity, irrevocably so.

“Just admit the kitchen is set on fire every time you step into it,” she needles, like the efforts of my resolve fighting drowsiness.

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