Stolen

She stole his breath at the now infamous New Year's party, when she wandered into the pool room barefoot, wearing black short-shorts and his mate's t-shirt.

She stole his number from his mate, the one who grinned every time her name was mentioned and who sometimes had a bit too much to drink and forgot his own strength.

She stole his heart when she rang him in tears and asked him to come get her from his mate's place, where she hid among empty, broken bottles and upturned furniture.

She stole his concentration that Monday morning, when she ran up to him, top three buttons of her school dress undone, and wrapped her arms around him, murmuring a thanks for something he wasn't quite sure of and making them both blush.

She stole his kiss when she sat on his lap in the row second from the back of the cinema, tasting of salty popcorn and smelling like a barrel of apples had had an affair with a bottle of gin, as the characters of the movie waltzed across the screen.

She stole his t-shirt the afternoon that they went out for coffee and then back to his house, where they somehow got into an ice-cream fight, and he helped her take off her top to wash it so it wouldn't stain.

She stole his innocence on the night that she came over to watch horror movies, and got so scared she had to clutch his hand and bury her face in his shoulder so her lips brushed his collarbone and made them both hot.

She stole his credibility the day his mate came to school slurring his words and swung a hard punch at his chin, leaving him spitting blood, for her to clean up.

She stole his dreams on the day that she didn't turn up to school, but did turn up on his door-step, suitcase in hand and covered in bruises, to inform him that his mate was scaring her more each day and she had to leave for somewhere secret.

She gave him a future nine months later, when she appeared on his front porch, wearing his t-shirt, surrounded by luggage and cradling a beautiful baby girl in her arms.