Royally Kissed | ✓

44|1; the second chance

The beats thrashing against her breastbone were making her limp like flowers wilting away. He'd gotten her so weak she couldn't speak nor stop him or herself from inching towards each other. Everything around them melted away into nothingness as if she was bespectacled with a sense of intoxicating anticipation.

And then a strange emotion flitted across his face, making him inch back. He'd stifled a sigh as he turned a cheek when Paige froze in confusion. In hurt, even.

"I'm gonna go..." he sloppily gestured a thumb towards the back, his jaw clenching for an unspeakable reason, "um, for a smoke."

She was almost offended. Her heart couldn't take it lightly; so when he shot up from the couch, she seized his hand and had only managed to hold his little finger.

"Tell me."

Paige had couched her words vaguely, but she didn't need to complete her sentence. Her request was easy to decipher and Owen had proven her right, if the indecisiveness dawning in his eyes would be a good indication.

"I want to know what's on your mind," she added, when he stayed silent.

It took him a good five seconds before he sunk down into the plush settee again, one leg bent crookedly between them as he rested his arm at the top of the couch–so that it almost looked like he was about to half-imprison her against him.

He ran his fingers through his hair in a way that seemed to be mirroring his frustration. Sighing, he stared right into her eyes and she kept them locked in return.

"Look, Paige," he started gently, his voice barely audible even amidst the engulfing silence, "This is not about me. You're all that I think about, you're all that I want. And it fucking scares me how I'm deeply and excruciatingly in need of you. But I don't want to seem like I'm taking advantage of you because you're vulnerable right now. Even though I want to kiss you so bad right now like I've always wanted to, I can't," he shook his head briefly, "I just can't do it. I don't wanna be that guy who screws everything up because he couldn't wait." His chin creased, lips tugging down at the corners, with eyes turning glassy as if he was about to crumble into a sob. Except, he didn't. And Owen's hand slid down from the couch to cage her hand in his and said, "I didn't think it would affect me that much when we fell out. You were hurting because I left you hanging while I drowned myself away with alcohol somewhere right after I walked out of your door, thinking if you'd ever take me back. Now, you're here. I can't lose you again."

She'd dragged a deep, shuddering breath at his first few words, in between, and the moment he'd finished. When words wouldn't come up, she'd try to engross herself with tugging something. There were ridges on her brown socks and she haphazardly traced one to keep her thoughts with company.

What he'd said basically made her stunned. It was true, she was a fragile little thing. And when Owen had taken a hiatus from her life, she was nothing but a messy scrawl in this paper world. No directions, no definite plan of action, no intention of drawing something worth the art.

She wasn't aware that while she was crying through the nights, waiting for him to come back and apologize to make things make sense again, he was actually drowning in his own sorrows because he'd just made a terrible mistake.

Her heart honestly softened at the edges at the mere words he'd just spoken.

Quite frankly, this was far from what she'd imagined of him having a plenty of good time with women and his friends at St Tropez. Was she a fool just as much because she hadn't looked into things a lot more clearer? For thinking about what she felt alone, not even taking a second to sit through what Owen might be feeling during those moments?