• • •
He’s different than he was at twelve. At fourteen. The soft edges of a kid long gone, replaced with something more mature. Darker.
The kind of face that makes you want to find out what’s behind it.
His hair is longer now — dirty blonde, always a little past what my school dress code would allow, curling slightly at the ends where it hits his collar.
Wearing all black again. Some band tee I don’t recognize. Ripped jeans. A small outline of a tattoo on his left arm — some kid at school knew someone with a tattoo gun.
I glance down at myself.
I wonder how he sees me. If he even does anymore.
The thought hits harder than it should.
I look back down at my book, pretending I care about whatever I was reading.
I find myself looking at him again.
At how lean he's become—stronger. Broader.
I look back up.
He's awake.
Watching me.
Shit.
Heat floods my face instantly—fast, uncontrollable.
He's always loved that about me.
How easy it is to read me. How I can never hide anything.
I hate it.
He suddenly throws a pillow at me.
I catch it.
Throw it back harder.
“I was just trying to figure out how to yell at you for wearing shoes on my bed,” I mutter.
“Is that why you were staring at my arms?”
He smirks. Raises his eyebrows.
Winks.
I scoff and lunge at him before I can think too hard about it.
We’re laughing. Wrestling. Rolling across the bed like we’re ten years old again.
It’s nothing new — this is what we do. What we’ve always done.
Except we haven’t done it in a while.
