Page 120 of Stalker's Toy

The world spins around it, around the center that is us, and I feel the slow build of relief and elation and holy-fucking-shit that rises as she opens her mouth to speak.

"It’s the black canvas," she says. "From that night in the studio." She hesitates, searching for words. For courage. "The night you painted me."

Her voice is breathless, filled with that old, familiar wonder, and I swear my heart stops.

She remembers.

She remembers everything.

It’s like an explosion, like a sudden rush of blood in my veins.

I’ve wanted this for so long. I’ve needed it like I need air and art and her.

I nod, maybe too fast, maybe too desperate. "The very same. I kept it for this."

My voice sounds different, ragged, almost raw.

I don’t know if I recognize it anymore.

The memory of that night fills the room, charging the air between us.

The rough wood of the floor, the scent of paint and skin and sweat.

The way she looked at me when I pushed her down on the canvases, when we tangled ourselves up in something that was never supposed to happen but did, gloriously and without restraint.

She’s the axis.

She’s the art.

She’s my world.

Every plan, every obsession, every single moment of these last months, they all come down to this.

To her standing here, seeing my world, knowing she’s at the center of it.

That she’s always been at the center of it.

She asks what the title means, and I tell her it means 'My World'.

Because it does.

Becausesheis.

Her eyes widen like she’s trying to take in more than she can hold.

More than she ever expected.

It’s exactly what I wanted, the surprise and the recognition, the knowledge that it’s hers.

That it’s always been hers.

I wait, and the seconds stretch out.

They go on forever, go on for a fucking lifetime, like they did in the studio that night.

A stretch of moments I never wanted to end.

I watch her, barely breathing, barely thinking, just needing.

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