I liked that Sam was a silent observer.
I liked even more becoming his silent observer.
The Art Institute was always beautiful.Warm and comforting, like one of Mimi’s desserts.I knew these rooms as well as my parent’s house.
Between pieces, I found myself taking as many moments to admire Sam as I did the artwork.It wasn’t difficult to see the beauty there, either.
Did I want to kiss the soft, contemplative look off his face every time I saw it?Hell yes.(Sometimes the light would shine off of the small hoop in his ear and I was tempted to walk over and pull it between my teeth).But it was more than that, and fuck, wasn’t I in the perfect place for that realisation?More than the strong nose and hypnotic eyes and broad curve of his shoulder; he was gorgeous in his focus.His care.His passion.
Soon, I was watching him more than the art.Over the last (what had it been now?) four weeks, my understanding of him had evolved.The still, controlled way he held himself had gone from cold to composed.Sterile to pensive.I’d been mistaken, in the beginning, to think that he didn’t express anything.He did; you just had to know what you were looking for.
The way his fingers would drag under his lower lip when he was turning a decision over.The slightest twitch in his right brow when he was surprised but trying to hide it.How a slow blink and tight smile would signal that he didn’t like the person he was talking to, despite the polite words.The way he spoke in short, sharp sentences (sometimes only a single word in a low, gruff mumble) whenever he was burning with anger.
The way he said my name.Conveying so much in three syllables.
Huh.What do you know?I might actually like him.
