After everything that has happened, it’s myself that I hate, not you. And that’s not fair. But I hate myself because I’ve just let you back in without thinking twice about it, because when you finally decided to speak to me again, the past didn’t matter. In that “hello” that I’d been waiting to hear, it was so easy for me to forget what you had done, and what I had done to myself because of it. I forget about the fact that I didn’t sleep for weeks, cried every single day, chose not to eat, and thought about things an eighteen-year-old shouldn’t have to think about. I forgot about it when I shouldn’t have. I should hate you. I should. But I don’t.
honestly, some of the sexiest things about a guy is the way his voice sounds when he’s tired, the smirk of satisfactory he gets on his face when he knows he’s done something good, and the protective instincts he has when it comes to his girl