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She felt her hackles rising. "That's not what I meant," Her low voice grumbled. "I meant, like maybe, like, ugh. I meant it in a good way and you had to go and turn it into an insult for yourself."

She hated when he turned on himself. All she saw when she looked at him were his virtues, and all he saw were his flaws. Maybe most people were like that, but she couldn't tolerate it from him. He was too good, too pure, too deserving.

"Yeah, you should have known right off the bat you were dealing with a biter." She chuckled out quietly. "No excuses, now."

"What," She asked, tilting with confusion. "Laugh?"

God damn it. There went her heart again, racing instantly at the mere prospect of being that close to Dawson for even one hot minute. Her breath turned shallow, with short inhales betraying just how much she wished it were true.

"I thought you weren't into it. Or. Something." She couldn't think. She couldn't put a fully formed sentence together. Despite the offer, she didn't move; she was so scared it would all come crashing down again

This sounded like the Dawson who'd been messaging her earlier. The one who'd convinced himself there wasn't a damn good reason he hadn't taken her up on her offer sooner. The one who tried, so hard, for her.

He was ignoring his problems. She'd know. It was her specialty.

Her psychiatrist warned her that there was no way to fix an issue until you admitted there was one. And here he was, acting like something didn't freeze him up every time she tried to get intimate with him. It didn't upset her; how could it? She was the mistress of running away. But she was no shrink and she was not about to try and talk Dawson through anything just because she recognized the signs.

She needed him to figure things out for himself.

She uncurled just enough to meet him face to face, and leaned in to press her lips against his. It wouldn't have to hurt when he pulled away, she told herself. This time she did it only for him.

Her eyes shot open when he tugged her closer, engaging with a sense of urgency that told an entirely different story from the one desire usually unfurled. He was pushing through something, instead of listening to whatever voice inside of his head kept him at bay. She couldn't tell what he wanted, anymore. What he needed.

And then the thought shot through her body that she was kissing Dawson, and he was kissing back, and he was holding her and she couldn't think, she couldn't think--

An inappropriately satisfied moan escaped her, muffled into his persistent lips, before her eyes fluttered closed and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Thinking was overrated

Pulling her away to talk about things received the expected response of a whine, and the attempts to get back to what they were doing despite any words. But it pierced through the fog of need eventually, and Maebe stopped tugging for him long enough to register it.

He was self-conscious. It was the oldest story in the book, and she'd been asked for so much more in her lifetime, that this seemed benign. At least he didn't want her to wear a wig, or be tied up, or call out someone else's name. Keeping his shirt on was reasonable.

And yet.

She pulled her hands away from his neck and pressed her palms against his chest, where his heart was fluttering through his shirt. "Of course you can. If that's what you want." She'd seen his chest a million times by now, and she loved every inch of him; but he may not have loved every inch of himself, yet.

Which begged the question; how was he going to pull this off?

"As long as mine can come off." She told him, unbuttoning the top collar of her shirt before pulling it over her head.

"I have a better idea." She told him, slinking back down until she was nestled back in the safety of his arms. "I know you think there's some trick to all this, but there isn't. So this is what you're going to do. You're going to do whatever makes you feel good. That's it. No big deal. But I will help, because when I'm with you, that's all I want to do. So I have the upper hand." It was so hard to bite her tongue and keep from asking him to grab her, tear her, make her his by force. She still wasn't over all of that, quite just yet.

"And at the very least, this part definitely lets you keep your shirt on." She breathed out, losing her hands down where she couldn't see them, and holding her breath in anticipation.

Taking the lead. This was starting to feel as new to her as it was to him. "That's what-"

But before she could point out that her hands were leading him places, her words died in her throat. He couldn't even look at her. She was touching him and his eyes were turned away as if all he wanted was for her to get it over with. That was what she was faced with, right now.

Her stomach rolled with disgust.

"I can't do this." She shook, and brought her hands up to wrap tightly around her body. "I'm sorry. I know I said it's all I've ever wanted, but. Not like this. I can't. Not with you, like this. You - we - this was supposed to be - I just can't. I'm sorry, I am so so so sorry."