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My eyes trail up his worn-in combat boots, dark denim, black tee, and black jacket. Over the tattoos that adorn his neck, and up to his piercing gray eyes.
My breaths get stuck in my throat again, but this time, it’s simply from the sight of him. The light scruff on his face, accentuating his scowl—though it’s not nearly as harsh as the ones I’ve seen on him before. The purse of his full lips. His dark eyelashes, framing those striking grays.
He sits down next to me without saying a word, and his head falls back against the brick behind us, mirroring mine.
And my thoughts are sluggish. From the alcohol. Or my latest episode. So I just sit here and watch him, curiosity blanketing my thoughts.
Why is he out here? Why did it look like he was looking for me, specifically? Why did he choose to sit down next to me?Why isn’t he saying anything? Why, why, why, to all of the things.
He pulls a joint from behind his ear and a lighter from his pocket. The joint meets his lips, and the flame meets the tip of the joint, and he takes a deep inhale, holding it in for a few seconds before releasing it into the air above him. And then he quietly offers it to me, his arm falling over my knees in a casual gesture that feels anything but casual. Not with him sitting less than a foot away, touching me in a familiar way when we’re anything but familiar.
Which doesn’t explain why itfeelsfamiliar.
I shake my head. “No thanks,” I answer his unspoken question.
“It could help, you know,” he says.
And I’m not sure what he’s implying, so instead, I say, “I thought you didn’t smoke.” At least that’s what it sounded like when he turned his friend down earlier, but I could be wrong.
“I don’t,” he responds, just those two words and no explanation. He starts scowling yet again, but it looks different from up close. Tension pulls at his features, drawing them toward his mouth. Drawing my gaze toward his mouth. “Except on the rare occasion I need to shut my mind off,” he offers, much to my own surprise. “Helps silence unwanted thoughts.”
I glance up at his eyes, knowing he’s saying something without actually saying it. That I’m a mess, and maybe he can see it, but maybe he’s a mess, too. He must’ve seen me tearing through the party in my desperate need for escape. Maybe he knows what panic looks like, what it feels like. I don’t know, but I find myself wanting to know.
I take the joint from his fingers and consider taking a hit.
Instead, I just take my time inhaling the calming smell of it and hand it back over to him.
If I didn’t know better, I would say the little twitch happening at the corner of his mouth was an attempt at a smile, directed at me. But his head is still tilted back, facing the night sky.
He hasn’t looked at me once since sitting down next to me, and I wonder all over again what he’s doing out here, when so far, before this small moment on the balcony, he hasn’t seemed to be able to tolerate even the sight of me.
A dozen questions follow that one, resting at the tip of my tongue, but I can’t find the words for any of them, so I just keep staring at him as he stares up at the stars.
He takes another hit, slowly rolling his head over the brick to face me for the first time since sitting down, and blows the smoke directly into my face.
I take a breath, watching his eyes through the smoke as they roam over my features and land on my mouth. I lick my lips in response, my gaze falling tohislips.
His mouth is what dreams are made of. Pouty, and wicked, and begging to be kissed.
I’m not sure what comes over me—whether it’s the alcohol still weeding through my veins, or the exhaustion from my panic attack settling into my bones, or a combination of everything all at once—but I lean forward with every intention to do just that.
“Ah ah,” he says, leaning back, tutting his head back and forth. I pause and take a breath before leaning back, too. I should probably be embarrassed by his rejection, but he doesn’t give me any reason to feel embarrassed, so I let it go, even if the need to feel his mouth on mine only grows stronger because of it.
He pulls the joint back to his lips, taking a deep inhale, and looks over at me expectantly.
I read his intent and lean closer again, and this time, he moves forward, too.
His lips barely touch mine. A light brush along the surface, urging me to open. I part my lips, and he blows his mouth full of smoke into mine, pressing just a fraction closer.
It’s a kiss, but not a kiss. A touch, but not a touch. The most exquisite kind of torture, the most painful kind of bliss, being close enough to feel him but not close enough to taste him.
I inhale the smoke and the heady flavor of weed, pulling away from him and releasing a cloud of it into the air.
I can feel his eyes on me, watching me intently. When I look up at him, there’s no mistaking the smile framing his lips now, the smallest dip of his dimples accenting them.
And I can feel myself smiling, too.
Chapter Five