The Boy with the Whiplash Tattoo

Seventeen

He stayed with me the whole time; when they pumped my stomach, and checked all my vitals, and stuck needles in me to test my blood and put me on a drip. He had to look away most of the time, his face drained or colour, but still sat at my side and held my hand.

I had never felt so close to him. And that made me sad. It was only when he'd almost lost me that he'd decided to stay.

"When they discharge me," I said to him softly, when we were finally alone. "Please don't leave me again."
He looked at me in surprise.
"I thought you didn't want me around."
I stared at him. I never realised how stupid he was.
"Don't you get it?" My voice rose a little. "I want to make this work. I want to fall in love with you."
He blinked at me like a small, confused creature. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.
I bit my lip to hide the smile. He looked like a goldfish.
"How?" He asked quietly, his gaze now averted. "How could you ever love someone like me?"
"Could you give me a chance to decide that for myself?" I was a little angry with him; he didn't even know me anymore, why was he making such stupid assumptions.
He paused, so still it was almost like he wasn't even breathing. Then he nodded slowly.
"Yes, I think I could."
I felt suddenly shy, and realised I didn't even know what he wanted  Perhaps I was being selfish.
"Do you...do you want to try too?"
He looked up through his long eyelashes at me. Like this, he was almost breathtaking. His curly black hair fell into his eyes, and there was a bashful smile at the corners of his lips.
"Yes. I would like that Camilla," he whispered. "My wife."
And at those two, simple words, filled with so much meaning, my insides melted. Tentatively I reached up to brush my fingertips across his cheek. He stiffened, but didn't pull away. All I wanted was for him to give in and soften against my palm.