I don’t care if I get one at all. Just as long as I keep getting anniversaries.

Tell me when you want to pick it up again." "Tell me when Satan starts a snowball fight." "I'll do that. Lunch?

He balled up my discarded sweatshirt and put it against his shoulder. “Go on,” he said. “I don’t bite.” “And from what I hear, that’s a good thing.” He gave a rumbling chuckle. “Yeah, it is.” I leaned against his shoulder.

You forget, darling, I am the local psychopath." ~Clayton Danvers, Bitten

And stop doing that,” he said. “Backing away, giving me that look.” Like you’re scaring me? Maybe you are.” He stepped back so fast he wobbled and caught himself, and the look on his face—It vanished in a second, the scowl returning. I’d never hurt you, Chloe. You should know—” He stopped. Paused. Then wheeled and started walking away. “Next time? Handle it yourself. I’m done taking care of you.

When I glanced at the chair, it started to shake. I’d like to think it was scared of me, but I rarely invoked that response in living things, let alone inanimate objects.

One second he was in my face, making me feel stupid and useless. The next he was like this: hovering, concerned, worried.