The pistol was cold against his forehead. In a moment, he would be lying in a pool of his own blood. He had been on the brink of death before, but he had never felt like this. He didn't know if his heart was racing because he was about to be killed or because she was holding the gun. 

Her hands were eerily still. He tried to meet her eyes, but they were set on the point between his brows, where she was pushing the barrel into his skin.

"Anything you want to say?" Her full red lips made it impossible for him to give his attention to anything else. "Do you have words?"

He had thought about his death many times before, turning the event in his mind and making it as romantic as he could manage. He had always imagined it would be a good ending. He would not have regrets or apologies. He would be prepared. He would be met with some tragic, but beautiful ending. He would have words—good ones. 

Her finger rested on the trigger. Her hands wrapped elegantly around her weapon. The contrast between her beauty and the violence of her actions would have made him laugh under different circumstances. He could hardly picture her capable of pulling the trigger. Her hands weren't made for that.

His body was reacting as if he were in love—he was sweating, his knees were weak, and his veins were pulsing—but that wasn't right. He didn't love her anymore. Even as his mind scrambled with memories of her sleeping in his clothes, his lips on her soft brown skin, the places and ways she liked to be touched, he told himself that he didn't love her anymore because here she was, holding a gun to his head, asking him to speak to her one last time. He didn't even have the words to say how he felt anymore.

"Say I said something."