From project PARADOX, which has really been fueling my creative spark lately:

He pulls me into his arms and lays my head against his shoulder, and he finally succeeds at shutting me up. His scent fills my senses. Hops is one of the few men who can afford black market cologne. Anybody else so flagrantly using the contraband would have been given demerits and denied rations long ago, but they make exceptions for the Prime Minister of the American State.
“I love you.”
The words leave my lips before I’m able to recall them, and I pray that he doesn’t think I’m rerunning the script from that night ten years ago. Time has shown me the truth he was so eager to convince me of then: of the problematic age difference, of the inappropriateness of my seduction, of the difficulties a relationship like ours would create among the populace. Even now, though Hops is pushing into his late fifties, he’s still a highly-desirable man. And in his position, the choices he makes for his conquests are rarely questioned. But ours would have been. Ours still would be.

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