My bare feet swing through the fresh morning air and the wind whispers through my tousled hair, the feeling of silk wrapped around my bare torso and strong arms wrapped around my waist a beautiful awakening.

Our glances catch again, His heavy-eyed state surely matching my own. "Sunrises are the most beautiful part of the day," I mutter out as my attention is turned momentarily to the kiss pressed to His lips.

He spreads His palms against my back and pulls me close, resting His head in the crook of my neck and humming out, "The sun is finally awake."

Waking up from sweet slumber filled with sinisterly sensual secrets spilling through the crevices of my mind as I dreamt to an unexpectedly empty bed and vivid rays of a sunrise seeping through the window to light my path from His bed to the door. Swift steps to His discarded shirt and a twist of the handle to find His figure slouched over the bar of the platform. Reflection evident from His poorly hidden unease and startled nature.

Reflections of my own settle in my head as I lean to rest my temple on his taught shoulder. Questions of liability and worthwhile risks. Answers of slow burning trust and head spinning lust. Images of slow dancing in the kitchen and quiet mumbling of sweet nothings through full mouths and stuffed bellies. Each reflection tosses me back into that moment of an unconscious fantasy with the twinkling of a piano and soft pat of drums with swaying hips and unanswered phone calls.

The phone wouldn't stop ringing.

I had that dream several more times, each time the ambiguous figure began to receive more of the features I've come to adore--His unruly curls, His enticing green eyes, His warm chest. Each time, the phone continued to ring without a caller on the other end, each time His playful advances became fewer and fewer until none were left, and then He became ambiguous again. No more groggy accent, no more curls to twist between my fingers, no more enchanting irises.

That damn phone never stopped ringing.

His inconsistent ambiguity within my dreams mirrors that of my conscious knowledge of Him. I know Him--His name is Harry, He eats grilled cheese with ketchup, He scarves down pancakes without blinking, He works half-heartedly even though music is truly His passion, His cover of indifference is quickly shed with a tune or the right person, He is innately kind but guards His heart fiercely. I don't know Him--He guards His heart fiercely, His indifference is his strongest armor, His passions are hidden deep within his chest, His past His biggest secret, His name is Harry but I don't know who He is.

His past being brought under dim light as I examine the brief detailing of His tragic accident and evident abuse. I know who He is but I don't know why. I have yet to comprehend His harbored self-hatred or His modest hesitation. His hesitation to indulge in Himself, to authentically grind out the kinks in Himself to discover a well-polished, well-achieved masterpiece.

He is a work of art that has been trapped inside a vault so as to be found when the time is right. I'm slowly picking the lock to bring Him out for display as the centerpiece of my study. A study of Sunshine.

I've fallen for Sunshine. His Sunshine. I've fallen for the brightest, kindest version of Harry. I've fallen for the boy that kisses apprehensive skin and leaves songs on repeat for hours. I've fallen for the boy who rambles about decades worth of musicality and leaves vinyls on porches. I've fallen for the boy who secretly watches feminine comedy-dramas and regards me with a nickname I couldn't help but reciprocate. I've fallen for Sunshine but I can't help but think that I'm just in the eye of the storm.

My temple lifts from His shoulder and I plant a plush kiss to His bare skin. I bring my hand to tap His forehead, "What's going on up there?"

A shy smile is brought across His face, "Lots of stuff, mostly thinkin' about how sexy you look in my shirt."

I hum in acknowledgement, His tone telling more than His words, His reflecting, similar to mine, was that of storms and darkness. My storms, my darkness.

He knows me--My name is Phoebe, I eat pancakes without batting a lash, I thieve french fries that grin, I work half-heartedly even though writing is truly my passion, my weapon of disinterest is disarmed with a passage or the right person, I believe myself to be kind but I guard my heart fiercely. He doesn't know me--I guard my heart fiercely, my disinterest is my sharpest sword, my passions are kept close to my chest, my past my biggest secret, my name is Phoebe but He doesn't know who I am.

He knows what I allow Him to, the evidence I give Him of what I've endured is certainly brought under a dim light of His own to examine the brief detailing of my mishandling and quieted torment. He knows who I am but He doesn't know why. He has yet to comprehend my harbored self-hatred or my conceited hesitation. My hesitation to indulge in myself, to authentically grind out the kinks in myself to rid myself of the dulled and incompetent weight.

"What are you really thinking about?" I ask as I bring my hand to intertwine with His.

He scoffs, "Lots of stuff, okay. Nothing and everything."

I sigh as I unwrap my legs from His waist, pushing myself to stand over Him. I step to His side and scuffle back towards the door, twisting at the fidgety handle and stepping through the barrier. The door clicks shut behind me as I wander to the kitchen, my face feeling hot and short temper fizzling. My restless hands digging through cabinet after cabinet in search of mugs and coffee grounds. I finally find them and let the pot steep the grounds with steaming water.

A quick temper brought out by a mutual fault, secret-keeping. No one sincerely knows all the intimate details of another living being, it's impossible to memorize each freckle, each hue in opulent irises, each spiral of each strand of hair, each syllable spilled from lips, each thought derived from mind, each hitch of flustered breath, each beat of handsome heart. Secrets are unintentional and inevitable, we are bound to keep the unattractive on the tip of our tongues and the grotesque deviance in the back of our minds.

The scent of caffeine leaks through the room and swirls around me as I crack my knuckles and pull at the skin of my nail beds. Anger brings anxiety and distasteful habits.

The tattered edges of my fingers and the split ends of my hair brought about from constant tugging and mistreatment. The sensitivity of my tear ducts and sniffling of my sinuses brought about from constant battering and maltreatment. The tightness in my chest and scattering of my brain brought about my constant abandonment and abuse.

I shake out my hands and swallow back the troublesome lump in my throat. Sunshine isn't forever, night must come eventually, cloud cover is certain, storms are promised. The soft rays of the Sun can only be appreciated if times without it are remembered.

The swinging of the door and loud steps take my dozed off stare from the dribble of coffee to the unattractive state in the doorway. Clenched fists and tight jaw, furrowed brows and narrowed eyes.

"Can't I have a thought of my own? One that I don't have to share?" He questions with a fueled gravel.

My gaze is brought back to the varnished mups on the counter, my tone monotonous, "Haven't you got enough of those? Am I only meant to be given your mind sparingly?"

"You are possessive with your own mind. That is not one sided."

I pick the pot from the plate and pour the liquid into the porcelain. I take both mugs by their handles and outstretch my arm to offer the mug as an olive branch. "I don't ask for all of your mind, just fragments." I've lost all interest in pouring gasoline to my already sparking unhappiness.

He looks down to the mug and back to me before taking the mug in his own hand, "I do no different. I don't push."

I step over to the kitchen table and pull a chair out to sit as I say, "I've given all I'm capable of right now. If you've given all you're capable of, if you honestly cannot reveal more, I could be satisfied."

"But you're not?" He asks as He sits.

"Have you given all you're capable of in this very moment?"

He raises His brow in contemplation before answering, "I believe I have."

"Then your thoughts are your own. I will not ask for more."

The silence that fell between us was not one of comfort, it was full of tension, a tension begging to be broken by words that could possibly be seen as better left unspoken but monumental if shouted out. The only sounds left to be heard was the sipping of coffee and the clinking of mugs against the table. What feels like milleniums pass but it's evident from the continued steam rising from our cups that it's been minutes at most, grueling minutes of unrest.

My heart, the vessel that has led me to this point and into His arms, tells me to reach my hand out to clutch His own in futile effort to regain a groove of ease again. The singular beats of my heart beg me, cry out in whining whispers through my bloodstream, 'He needs your trust,' and, 'He's given so much already.'

My mind, the anchor that kept me shored on the bank as I crawled across the sand for a passing glance from Him, tells me to stand from my seat and let the door hit me on the way out in an inefficacious attempt to maintain my quickly fading dignity. The singular firings of my neurons demand me, shout out in scolding screams through my skull, 'He needs space,' and 'You've done enough already.'

The whispers of honesty drown out the scalding shouts. My heart wins yet again with its gentle touch to soften the sharp tongue of my mind.

I push my coffee cup away from me towards the center of the table and stand, walking over to Him and gripping both His hands in mine. I glance down at tangled digits before meeting His gaze, His eyes losing their fearsome pique to reveal confusion.

I bring my lips to His knuckles, pressing soft kisses to each of them. "I like your hands, they play beautiful music."

I slip into His lap cautiously and settle on His thighs, I pepper kisses along His neck and jaw before crashing my lips into His and fighting myself to pull away. "I like your words, they are brave."

I tangle my hands in His curls and bring His lips to catch in mine again before pulling away to see His expression twist into ease. I take my index finger and tap His temple, "I like your mind, its quick witted."

I drop my hand from His temple and press it to His chest, my fingers splaying over His thumping heart, "But most of all, I like your heart. It's kind and I just wish I could see it all the time."

He's quick to wrap His arms around my back and stand from the chair, my legs tighten around His waist as He carries us to the bed. "I worship you, you know?" His voice low and full of lust.

Any sort of courage I was meant to have in my entire life was spent last night, that's how it feels when my throat goes dry and my eyes turn the size of dinner plates. My hesitation inducing naivety is no match for His fully formed libido. Desire crawls under my skin like spiders and butterflies swat at my lungs and migrate to my belly, wasps stinging my chest and forcing goosebumps across my skin.

"I don't want to scare you away," He whimpers between passionate presses of plush lips, "I'm not ready to scare you away."

I gasp out breaths when our lips pull apart as my eyes dash across His features--His flushed cheeks and lust filled eyes keeping my attention, the emerald of His eyes engulfed in the thickness of darkened pupils. "You couldn't scare me away," my lips curled into a wicked grin, "I'm brave remember."

He shakes His head harshly before enveloping our lips back together as He falls back to sit on the bed, greedy handfuls of my behind and wandering eyes. Lips pepper my neck with love bites as devious whispers crash against my skin in hot breaths, "Want you so bad," and, "My Sunshine's so sweet."

His naturally seductive attitude brings me to a state of mewls and moans as His fingers dig into my hips and teeth sink into my skin, my head tossed back to give him further access. Bites and bruises left behind before He nips at my ear with a low muttering of, "Can I have you?"

My eyes peel open to see an inquisitive glint in His lewd irises, I pull my head down to meet his gaze, "What?"

"Can I have you, Sunshine?" He repeats without His previously playful tone.

I can't help the widening of my eyes and dropping of my lower lip, "I'm-I"

"Can I just have a taste?" He rephrases.

I pull my lip between my teeth and let out a shaky breath. I could say no, He would never force himself onto me, I know He would wait until I was ready. But then, I could say yes, I've been looking for the key to my freedom for years. I've been tip-toeing around my own fears to live a life of unfulfillment in almost every sector of my life, I've been trying to hold myself back from anything that could make me uncomfortable because of an irrational terror that torments my mind. I've found my key, the match to light a spark to show the way, I've found someone that I trust whole-heartedly to lead me to a meadow of sensual desire where I can be tossed into a pool of pleasure.

I've been trying to be brave when I need to be courageous. To be brave is to do something that was once feared. To be courageous is to be brave despite fear, allow myself to experience discomfort as to grow, find a balance of trusted growth.

Be courageous, Phoebe.

"Taste me."