The night was a velvet curtain, heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth—and Mann stood outside her window, fogging up the glass with her breath. She slept curled up on her side in the small sliver of moonlight that painted her face—her cheeks were slightly pink, lips parted, and hair splayed across the pillow. He pressed his fingers to the cold glass, tracing her form, letting his breath moments later sync with hers as the minutes passed. "Cassette, you are my silent hum," he whispered into the dark, his voice muffled. He had stolen her scarf against her some hours before from her bag, and the lavender smell drifted into his nostrils like a sweet intoxicant that intoxicated him and filled him with her presence.
Together, she laughed so hard that his head rang for the rest of the day. She had taken up residence on his kitchen counter, stirring her tea counterclockwise with her unsteady hand beside him while he cooked: eggs sizzling in their pans, steam curling upward. "You watch me like a puzzle," she had teased as she nibbled her lip, in between sending him a kind smile, and the next moment he was grinning, closing in between her thighs to plant one slow, very deep kiss on hers, his tongue all the while tasting peppermint. "You are," he conceded as she gently tugged at his hair. "One I'll never solve, but I'll die trying, Cassette." She laughed again, once again tugging at his hair, and he felt her life pulsating under his fingers—steady, fierce, a rhythm he'd die to soothe.
Now, his wild love was so fierce that it clamped down on his ribs as they went for coffee or tea or those stupid smoothies she liked. She had confessed some harsh truths that afternoon, when she had been allowed to relax and discuss her hectic monotony out on his thin couch. "People leave. My mom, exes, they cut me open—down to the bone—and always walked away, just like that," she whispered, leaving imperceptible trails on Mann's damp, bare chest. Her gaze glittered as he gingerly lifted her flush cheek to press it, promising, "Not me—won't happen; I'd die for you, Cassette. I'll take all the bullets. Inside there was nothing but rage—the deluge of revelation shadowed by injuries inflicted by some faceless beings, seeking redemption outside. His promise seemed bright and sharp against his flesh, embedded him with Muketi revenge.
That night he took her up to the bathroom, which was full of steam from a bath he had meticulously prepared, while candles flickered like tiny stars along the margins. "Relax for a moment, my darling," he coaxed, peeling the shirt off her top, exposing flesh as radiant as starlight beneath the dim lights. She hesitated for a second but wished away her apprehension and stepped into the tub, allowing the water to wash over her thighs. And Mann slipped in after her, settling himself behind her so her back flushed against his chest. "Water soothing, mesmerizing]. Oh Cassette, I'd burn cities for your warmth," he murmured, massaging her scalp while washing her hair. "There—there." He helped his thumbs take her head movement as a sign of positive association. She turned back again toward him, her hands around his shoulders, his hands on her hips. ViewChild! Him! Mann, he was just a child's toy while she was already a puppet-maker, portraying them making love in nasty ways through to the truth.
Spoiling you's my religion, Cassette," he murmured against her lips, hands sliding to thighs and fingers pressing into the soft denim of jeans. "You're my altar, and I'll worship you until I'm dust." There was laughter that came unguarded, and she tugged at his hair, pulling him closer, warm breath now warm on his cheek. The lamb finished roasting; plated it with careful attention-her favorite, with specks of lavender that she once claimed so closely reminded her of home-and they ate cross-legged on the floor, a scratchy vinyl turning overhead in his old record player, crackle under the heartbeat of their words.
Thereafter, he pulled her up towards him as the music swelled- a slow-sorrowful tune- and they moved barefoot in dancing, with her body swaying against his own, the head tucked under his chin, "You're too good at this," she whispered as her hands slipped under his shirt following the lines of his ribs, and he shivered-her touch like the spark that lights in him ablaze. "Only for you," he said, spinning her gently, then drawing her close, with their chests pressed tight against each other. "You're my rhythm, Cassette, every step a note I'll never miss."
He then took her to a table where a small box was waiting there tied with twine. "For you," he said, and she's opened the box, in which there is a locket: a silver one-simple-with one little curl of his dark hair inside. At this, her eyes grew big, and he stepped behind her and cut it around her neck, his fingers grazing her skin as he pressed it to her chest, over her heart. "Keep me close, Cassette," he whispered, lips brushing her ear, "so I'll never be far from you." She turned and accepted a fierce kiss, hands framing his face, and he felt her love like a tide, pulling him under.
Then he took her to the rooftop, the city sprawling below under a starless sky, the cool air brushing against the flushed skin. "Lie with me," he said spreading a blanket, and she did curl into him with the blanket. Then he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, and finally deep into her lips, so that she rolled atop him, her hair hanging around the faces. "You're mine," she murmured, unbuttoning his shirt, and he groaned, hands gripping her hips. "You're my cathedral, Cassette," he breathed, "every arch a vow I'll never break."
He slid up her shirt and kissed her collarbone, her breasts, her belly, with his lips following the curvature, every freckle while she gasped. Her fingers tangled in his hair. She tugged at his jeans; he shrugged them from his hips, pulling her close, their bodies bare and trembling under the open sky. "Mann," she whispered, directing his hands, and he worshipped her kissing her thighs, his hips, the soft hollows of her, tasted her warmth, her salt, everything. She arched into him, her moans a hymn he drank in, lovemaking a slow, sacred collision, skins slick with sweat, breaths mingling in the dark. He held her gaze, her eyes locked on his, and when she shuddered, crying his name, he followed, their climax a shared pulse that bound them tighter.
In his embrace, she lay after, her head on his chest, and the locket glimmered in the gap between them. "I love you," she cooed, soft and sure, and his heart swelled, a wild thing, desperate and kind. "I love you, Cassette," he said, kissing her hair, lavendery musk wafting in the air as it engulfed him and drowned him in a memory. "I'd kill the world to keep you spinning, my perfect tape." She smiled a little drowsily, not hearing the edge in his voice, the oath simmering beneath his tenderness. He cradled her while she slept, his obsession blooming like a dark flower, with roots deep, ready to choke any cross in its way.