Mary-Allison Flagstone

He looks tired, innocent, beat up, cute, vulnerable—He’s, my dream. Christopher throws a couple of logs into the fireplace. Flames reflect in his eyes, burning away the ivy green from them. The only light in the room glows from the fire and a few candles scattered about the large room.

On the couch, I nestle into a quilted blanket I found on me. It smells like Christopher. Ideally, this is the coziest and safest I’ll ever be in my life, except for the ...