11:59

He calls her Cinderella.

She thinks this should be derogatory, as he only calls her that when she's on her hands and knees, sponging dirt from the floor with toxic water until her hands are red and raw, or when she's trudging through the house with loads of wet laundry in her arms to be hung outside in the summer's sun.

He only calls her Cinderella when she's below him. Far, far below, and he's gigantic in comparison.

It should be insulting, she knows, but it still sinks her heart to the pit of her stomach, turning it to butterflies that flutter inside of her ribcage.

---

The mop glides across the hardwood floor, up and down, and he's watching her from the doorway with his arms across his chest and a smirk on his lips. He only moves when she misjudges a step, slides on the still-wet floor. He catches her under her arms, holds her to his chest and chuckles down at her.

“Careful, Cinderella.”

And there she goes again, releasing butterflies into her torso while her guts tangle themselves in undoable knots. But this time she can't stop herself and the words spring freely, easily, from her quivering lips.

“Why do you call me that?”

He lets her go, spins her around and says, “why not?”

He is all ego and complications as he stares her down, but there is something in the way those pretty blue eyes of his analyze her. Something that reminds her of endless skies and bottomless oceans, things that run deep and go on forever.

Like the happily-ever-afters in fairy tales that can never be real in this world.

But she's also felt akin to the impossible, so she chances it.

“Okay then. So what does that make you, Prince Charming?”

“You know it,” he tells her with a wink before he leaves her to finish her cleaning.

And she understands the reason behind the name, understands why this pretty rich boy wastes his time with a girl like her. She understands, and she will let him save her.