He wanted to tell her so many things—stupid, useless things about how she'd saved him, about how he wanted to save her. About what candlelight did to the naked shape of her, and the suggestions those shapes made to him. He wanted to tell her that he wanted to subscribe to her newsletter, read her blog, gape at her flickr, break the lock on her diary with his teeth and eat every page until he knew everything.

Nobody had ever told her she was beautiful and he could see that, those not-words burned onto her face like a scarlet alphabet. He wanted to tell her that she was, and he wanted to pin her hair behind her ear for her and tell her he didn't care if she never shaved or waxed or plucked or peeled. He wanted to tell her she'd still be his main course if she spoiled on the vine.

He wanted to tell her she wasn't just the answer to the question Why, but to the question How.

But he waited. And then it was too late.

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