He hadn’t wanted to force anything on her. He’d only wanted to get close to her, and she made him believe that it was her wish. The way she moved toward him, touched him, looked up at him was unmistakable. Her hugs radiated need. The sweater she wore, accentuating her small breasts, clearly wanting him to notice. But she had listened to the murmurings of liars, and she was embarrassed by her wont. So she broke his heart, to afraid to give in and be mocked by her peers. But even then she left the door open, because she had to. She could not bring herself to dismiss him completely. And, though he knew that something was wrong, his desire for her, a desire that confounded him as she was not much to look at and had off-putting habits, drove him to remain in contact, hopeful that one day she might give in. 

All he’d wanted was her attention, to touch her, to show her a passion that she had clearly never known. He had not intended to push a relationship, though she later accused him just that, and would have been happy enough as close friends … or a little more. He carried no strings. He would have been fine with being her late night caller and nothing more. And she could not hide how much she needed that. She could have had it, if only she hadn’t listened to them. He would have striven to please her, a passion sure to eventually melt her heart, for she had only know passion as usury, condescension, and brute force. He wanted to show her something different. He loved her. 

But the influence of them was too strong, and he realized that she was not being honest with him, toying with him, placating him. So he withdrew his attention from her, let her have what she had chosen. If she did not even want to be his friend, too scared of their judgment, then he would not be hers, though it tore him apart. And then she lost her mind. She needed that control over him, wanted him to worship her but receive nothing in return. He denied her.

So she raised her stinger and drove it into his back, determined to kill, and he responded with the only weapons he could conceive. They failed, and she turned them on him. 

He lived, in a manner of speaking, though he would never be whole again. She had turned to ice, steadfast on her desire to harm him as long as she could, until he became nothing to her. And, though he would never love her again, never trust her again, he would still have taken her in pleasure, just to show her what she had cost herself.