Daniel and I spent more time together, and my desire to prove my love flared up again.
But he still wouldn't accept it.
To avoid another incident, I tried to kiss him before a meal, but he gently pressed a finger to my lips and said flatly, "I don't want you to throw up again."

I was mortified. "Try again?" I offered, but he turned his back and refused.
One night when he wasn't working late, I crept into his arms to be close, and we accidentally collided — my nose hit his abs.
If the situation had been different I might have ripped his shirt off to see what was underneath, but instead I nearly flattened my nose and my eyes teared up.
Through my thin nightshirt I felt his heat and irregular breath; his heartbeat pounded in a way that made the air around us feel electric.
He pinned me gently, the bandaged hand next to his clenched his cuff and twisted, pulling me closer.
His trembling lips grazed my neck like stamping kisses.

Then, abruptly, he pulled away.
He looked like he'd been doused with cold water and forced himself to a strict demeanor.
"I won't touch you now," he said, sounding like an ascetic knight.
"I want more than your body. I want your heart." What?

At a time like this?
He rolled me up tightly in a blanket; the chain became like the binding.
It felt like being swaddled as a baby.
This wasn't some antiquated melodrama — Daniel wasn't a villain ready to harvest organs — he actually intended to cultivate feelings by force.
Daniel, this pure-love crusader, had apparently studied coercive-romance tactics somewhere.
I was furious.
He left briefly to take a cold shower.
When he returned, I lay on the bed hollow-eyed, feeling like my soul had been sucked out.
Whether he had misread something again, I didn't know.
We lay there, sharing the bed in different corners like roommates who'd just finished a long shift.