The way she's looking at me right now could bring a stronger man to his knees.
A shy smile touches her lips.
And suddenly I can't remember a damn thing I was about to say.
“You're staring,” she whispers.
“I know.”
And I am.
Because we're stretched out across her bed beneath a canopy of fairy lights.
Because her hair is spread across the pillow like a halo of fire.
Because she's looking at me like she trusts me.
Like she wants me here.
Like she chose me.
And that last one?
That one wrecks me.
Completely.
Her hand slides into mine.
The gesture should be simple.
Instead, it feels intimate as hell.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
Too much.
Way too much.
I brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear and let my fingers linger against her cheek.
Because I can't seem to stop touching her.
Every touch feels important.
Like I'm memorizing her.
“I'm thinking you're beautiful.”
Her eyes immediately close.
And I hate that.
Not because she's embarrassed.
Because she still doesn't see herself the way I do.
“Hey.”
