Living on Writer's Block

He wasn’t her type.

Her type was classic, in every novel from the Bronte sisters to L. M. Montgomery to Sarah J. Maas. Tall, dark, and handsome to a fault. Piercing, pale eyes with frost at their centers that would melt only for her. Eyes that would cut through her soul and make her suck in a breath, only for the oxygen to freeze with the ice in his gaze. She’d dreamed of brooding Byronic heroes, god-like perfection in physical form, worshipful like a devotee at her own altar. She’d wanted to be worshipped by a god.

He wasn’t her type.

Her type was cold. She’d wanted cocky, she’d wanted confident, she’d wanted bold and flirty and maybe just a little bit toxic. Something with that ‘mafia’ energy, the confidence to charm her father at dinner and scandalize her after dessert. A gentleman in public, until it was time not to be. Actions over words, acts of service, touches — someone who would have to show her how he felt because words simply ‘wouldn’t be enough.’

He wasn’t her type.

Her type was dangerous. She’d wanted someone lethal, someone willing to kill for her, to die for her — ‘either way, what bliss.’ She’d wanted him protective, possessive, obsessed and just a bit jealous. Dangerous — but soft, with her, for her. Someone silent, dark, threatening in public, who melted in the warmth of her solitary light in the quiet of their own home later. She’d wanted knee-weakening smirks, heated gazes, snark and attitude, overpowered confidence, dry humor, sarcasm. Someone who would kiss the ground she walked on, but wouldn’t let her get away with anything. She’d wanted someone who, in highschool, had been graduating from dual-enrollment business, finance, and economics classes with a 5.0 GPA.

She’d wanted someone god-like.

She’d wanted a black hole.

What she’d gotten… was far different.

His height started with 5′. He’d worked in construction. She’d wanted to drown in the Arctic Ocean, but instead she’d found herself floating, cradled, in molten pools of sunlight and gold and caramel. Soft, warm eyes that made her heart melt, and not her brain. His hair was golden in summer, until September stole the sun. He was strong, and worked hard. She’d wanted a man who was strong before she met him, but instead, she watched the effort it took him to get there.

He wasn’t her “type.”

He was warm. She’d gotten confident, but not cocky. She’d gotten strong, settled, assured. Nothing theatrical or dramatic about him.

She’d wanted glorious, in the way icebergs or lighting are glorious. She’d gotten glorious, in the way sunsets, hot coffee in the morning, and ripe fields of wheat waving in the wind are glorious.

He was quiet, reserved, and maybe even a little shy. He was respectful.

She didn’t want respectful.

She’d gotten someone willing to die for her, but she’d also gotten someone willing to live for her, to pour himself into her, and she found she only wanted to overflow back into him. She’d gotten protective, but not jealous – she’d gotten someone who was never worried about where her heart would lie. He wasn’t jealous – but he did stay close, always, hands always brushing, fingertips tangling, secret, shy smiles, and golden glances.

He wasn’t her “type.”

She’d wanted actions over words. Instead, she got both. Ceaseless words, ever-flowing, talking banally about life, this, that, and the other thing, ‘how was your day’ texts and late-night phone calls. She fell asleep on FaceTime more times than she could count.

“He wasn’t her type.”

She’d wanted danger; she’d gotten security. Where she’d wanted a storm, she’d gotten the rock to stand on in the midst of life’s hurricane. She’d wanted smirks. Instead, he’d smiled. And she wanted to kiss his dimples when he did. Where her type focused on money, never dirtied his hands, and prowled air-conditioned boardrooms like a wolf and stayed up with the cold moon to finish his work, she’d gotten a man who worked with his hands, who played football in August sun, who got grass-stains on his jersey and had helmet hair and dried streaks of sweat-smeared eyeblack on his cheeks. Where she’d wanted a man who bought her a five-course meal at fine restaurants every night, she got a man she made pasta for after work. She’d wanted someone who wouldn’t let her get away with anything, and instead, she’d gotten someone who made her not even want to try.

She’d wanted someone god-like.

She’d gotten someone godly.

She’d thought she wanted a black hole.

She’d fallen in love with the sun.