Sawyer Says

I might fuss at him,

his gaze turn molten.

slope of her back

passionate pounding of limbs one moment to subtle savoring of each infinitesimal movement.

gaping mouthed wail.

self-made man.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda, Sawyer

The cake bearer

what have you been up to the last seventeen years?

before he schools his features and solemnly nods.