I've been dead for a while, and I wanted to write more about my favorite OC couple :] So, I added a chapter. Hope whoever reads it, likes it :D

"Tell me you love me,"

Her smile stretched across the sky, her auburn hair cascading and framing her face in silky waves, her voice soft and tender.

"I love you, Bernadette,"

"How much?"

It was his turn to smile. And with it, he could rule the world. His dark hair brushed alongside his ears and tickled his forehead; he was so very handsome.

"More than anything,"



"Tell me more," She demanded.

"About how I love you?"

"No – about anything,"


"Anything," She confirmed.

He rolled over onto his back and she climbed on top of him; the squeaking of his bed could have woken up his parents, but he didn't mind it. For, in turn of the anxiety of his parents finding him in bed with his teenage girlfriend at an obscene hour of the morning, he was rewarded with the chance to hold her at intimate angles and look into her angelic eyes at a proximity otherwise unavailable to him. He pet his callused, but comforting hand through some locks of her satin hair as it poured onto his naked shoulder and pillow. He closed his eyes and concentrated on feeling her breath dance across the surface of his lips, slightly parted. His eyelids so heavy, he could have been in a lucid dream and her form simply a mirage among the desert of his discontentment. But he would open his eyes again and find his gaze reflected in the oasis, to save him from the heat and torture and loneliness.

"I do not have one passing thought that isn't entirely about you,"

"Is that a fact?"

"It is,"

Her smile grew more broad and the moonlight slipped down her shirt and into the small spaces by her eyes and nose and ears and lips as she shifted. Her palms spread over his chest and felt his heart pounding triumphantly for her; his complexion was the smooth affair between the cello and bass and his irises were the steam of a weak tea or strong coffee and he was warm and lovely, singing in her blood and tickling her bones. To touch him was to feel his warm embrace on every inch of soul, to by touched by him was to bind them by something intangible. To rake her hands through his hair the way she would was to brush away all the sadness she'd ever felt or ever known she felt. To have him want her, was to never live in a world outside his bedroom and arms ever again. The sighs in his stare breathed out from her, deflated her own lungs, blew out from her own lips and he was a warm escape, a place she never had to feel weight or anger. Her stomach flattened against his own rigid one and she entwined her legs with his, switching the weight on her shoulders and allowing her hair and eyes to fall in the opposite direction. Still maintaining eye-contact all the while.


"And I love you," He told her.

"Your voice is so low,"

"It's because I'm so tired,"

"You sound much more manly,"

"Do you like that?"


He closed his eyes, turning his head, her fingers curling against his cheek that was half-rested on his pillow. He opened them slowly again,

"Tell me you love me back,"


He met her eyes, a joker in her pupil, playing with his heart, taking loans out on his kindness that she could never, or rather, would never repay.

"Because when you tell me to tell you so, I do,"

"Is that the only reason I should say I love you?"

"You should say it because you mean it,"

"Oh, do I?"

He furrowed his brows and turned his face straight toward hers,

"What does that mean?"

"I'm just surprised you think you know me so well,"


"It's a tad presumptuous of you to assume that I harbor feelings I don't vocal—"

Before she could complete her thought, he had taken her by her dainty wrist and pulled her forward, tugging her into a torrid kiss. He glared at her when they were parted and in a hushed tone, bit out,

"You love me. You always have, you've never had eyes for anyone but me and I will not tolerate being toyed with. You love me and you will not lie to me or play with my heart. Am I understood?"

Her eyes were wide and twinkling with stars and unspoken words, her face reflecting shadows of the nightlife just outside his window, in a way, almost mocking the theater in his mind. He was no director, he could not re-write her character to be the heroine of his show who endlessly devoted undying love. He could pretend, though. He certainly was good at pretending.

"I love you,"

"Again," He ordered.

"I love you," She said, closer to him, if at all possible.

"Never stop saying that," He murmured as he closed his eyes and relaxed his neck.

His eyes barely opened to see her climbing out of his window, back into the real world, a world outside his bedroom and arms. Her glow combined with the morning light dripping out of the orange and black faucet of the sky made only of stars and clouds and she met his half-conscious look and her countenance was in all ways radiant as she barely whispered,

"I shall never know another truth but that I love you,"

And so even when he had slept, all she had uttered were words of love, and until the very day she died, all she would ever speak would be words of love for him.