This might be the first time I've ever been able to look at him without him looking at me.
His dark strands are almost long enough to be styled, the widow's peak more striking with the extra length. Dark brows rest heavily against his forehead, slightly furrowed even in sleep.
Those sharp cheekbones and his full mouth, a contrast of hard and soft, lines and curves, smooth and harsh.
And the tattoo of his namesake. In this light, I can find the beautyin it, rather than just the fearsomeness. I'm surprised, and maybe a little disappointed, that he sleeps fully dressed. It would be nice to see more of the tattoos and not have him watching me with those intense, dark eyes.
Performance anxiety.
I think back to the night we met and how his stare made me self-conscious, just about whether I'd enjoy a drink properly. I feel the same way whenever I look at him, trying not to get lost in all the beauty of his features.
Hidden between the magnetic pieces of him, hide tiny scars. Across his jaw, another right against where his hairline begins, only noticeable because I'm cradled against him. I ache to run my fingers along them, to bring comfort to wounds long healed.
"You're staring," he finally says, jarring me into a gasp.
I stumble through thinking up an argument, "It's only fair. You stare all the time."
His lips pull in a smirk, but he doesn't open his eyes, letting me linger in this world just a little longer before the real one comes to disrupt us.
"I'm a creep," he admits. "I get to be creepy. You're the one who is all upright and ethical."
We both know that's not true, but he's nice enough to lie.
"Let me be the creep for a minute," I mutter, wrapping the blanket further around me, burrowing myself into the warmth and scent of him, the cocoon of safety.
He chuckles, "Do you need me to take my shirt off? Just so you can get areallygood look at everything? I might even be persuaded to lose my pants, if you ask nicely.”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip, trying to keep the blush and smile at bay.
A quiet knock comes from downstairs, and Cormac's eyes fly open, finding mine in the dim light.
"Stay here," he tells me, rolling out of the bed and grabbing something from the bedside table, silently stalking out of the room.
He closes the bedroom door behind him, leaving me in the rapidly cooling sheets with nothing but my anxiety and flashbacks of last night.
Could the police already be here?
What got missed as they were covering up evidence?
My heart races, making it nearly impossible to stay in bed. But Cormac told me to stay, and he knows this house. I don't. I'll likely trip over something; I don't have his uncanny ability to move like a ghost.
The scent of bacon and coffee seeps through the closed door, followed shortly by quiet, but not silent, footsteps.
When it opens, Cormac stands in the doorway, holding up my phone in one hand and a very familiar paper cup in the other.
The confusion has to be palpable on my face, because he knowingly grins, "Skyler brought breakfast."
"Wow," I lay my head back down. "That was thoughtful."
I can't put my finger on why, but facing another person right now feels impossible. Especially one that sees everything like he does. More and more, I get dragged into the darkest parts of our city, but before yesterday, I could still pretend that I was somehow separate from it.
And today, I realize that I'm not.
I never really have been.
Skyler and Cormac aren't any more in this world than I am. The darkness found them, and they coped with it the only way they could.
Now I'll have to do the same, carrying the guilt of ending someone's life with me for the rest of mine.
