One time, I'd let myself believe I could fall in love with a prince. I still haven't recovered from the cuts those glass slippers made when they shattered.

I want to kiss you, Story. I want the whole fucking world to know you’re mine. I want it cast in stone.

Even if he could never belong to me, I would always belong to him. Painfully, ruinously, irrevocably.

Because this is what happens in the real Cinderella story. The prince has to marry a princess, and people like us? We have to find peace in the ashes.

I knew then that Gray could fee my butterflies, because he seemed determined to rip their wings off anytime they fluttered.

Maybe I've started rooting for you to fail.

I can’t come up there,” I whispered. “I can’t do it. I can’t wake up in the morning and go back to being nothing.” The thunderous roar of waves amplified the silence. I figured he had dropped the matter, and I let my vision blur in the glimmering crystals of his art deco chandelier above. Then he spoke. “I can’t wake up tomorrow and not smell you in my sheets, Snitch.

You’re born to be seen, and because of that, you hide your heart. I was born to be forgotten, and because of that, I wear my heart on my sleeve. I don’t think it’s working out so well for either of us.

She wasn't just cleaning-she fucking belonged here. In my bed. In my veins.