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the black lodge is based on david lynch's bungalow

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"Where do I start?"

I laugh. A little shy, like it always is with him. I've never been that kind of person, but he brings it out in me. It's not that I'm self-conscious, it's just that- I don't want to let him down.

He told me I wouldn't. I believed him, but it's still there, that fear, that nagging fear that I won't be good enough for him any more. That I won't be so intrinsically part of his vision.

"Well, Kale. In some circles it's referred to as 'objectification'. Now, I don't like the term. You're no object, but you are objectively beautiful."

He’s only telling me what I suspect, but my mouth goes suddenly dry. Reaching for my wine glass is not subtle. I do it anyway, because I'm past caring. I need to hear him say these things. 

"Often- not always- you embody what I want. You're versatile. Or, maybe you're not. Maybe you're just meant for me."

"Meant for you," I repeat, tracing my fingertips over the rim of the glass. I meet his gaze, and find a steel hint of possession within it. 

"There are too many people in this world I can't stand. Sometimes they'll be on my set. Sometimes they'll be behind my cameras. But there are also people who work with me seamlessly. They listen. You listen, Kyle. I like that." 

I want to tell him that I listen because I know everything he has to say is worth hearing. But as much as I adore him, I'm not a sycophant. I think he likes that too. He knows I'm just as in awe as everybody else, but my hanging onto his words is subtle. There’s a fire in me that my admiration won’t put out. Nothing will. Not even David. 

And we laugh, too. I am the first to laugh, when the room is cast into awkward, hesitating silence, because his sense of humor is... 

"Would you hate it if I joined you over there?" 

The shadow of a grin meets my words. I return it. Whatever he gives me, I return it.

"Not at all," he answers. And he casually drapes his arm around the back of the couch, for me to settle into, for me to boldly press myself into his side. 

"Beautiful how," I ask, feeling his breath on my lips. 

His hand pushes through the hair at the back of my neck, knotting itself there and tilting my head back. 

He watches me, frowning slightly. I stay very still. 

I love what we do. I don't get this anywhere else; only with him. I can’t imagine this with anyone else, and even trying to upsets me. I’d like to think that we could do this forever- that I’ll be what he needs for all time. 

"Your teeth," he says eventually. "You have the most gorgeous teeth." 

When he kisses me, I'm smiling. And it goes on like this for all the years we've known each other.