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That being said, Samael is older than me by a year and ten months. Well, did I mention that he’s also quite tall for a kid who’s almost 13? His hair is a deep, black abyss, with a subtle wave at the tips, and his eyes resemble a nocturnal ocean—icy, deceptive, and so, so intensely dark that you can’t tell where the water ends and the sky. That’s precisely why I’ve never been able to look him in the eyes. Every time, I feel like I’m sinking into the darkness of his gaze, and it scares me. Instead, I find myself captivated by his chiseled cheekbones, wide forehead, and those lips, so well-defined and plump. His face bears a striking masculinity for a boy on the brink of adolescence. He’s growing so fast, and I feel like I’m lagging behind. Lately, his jawline has grown sharper, his hands roughened, making me think about the future, wondering what will remain of my beloved Samael when the tide of change finally settles down.
“I wanna save the Samael I know,” I sigh, trying my best to sketch him accurately.
“What do you mean?” the dude blinks slowly, and I feel his dark eyes locking onto me.
“You’re changing, turning into someone different, and I’m scared I’ll forget the real you, the one I’ve always known.”
I look at him, but as our eyes meet, I flinch and redirect my focus to the stone-crafted window ledge I’m sitting on.
Samael approaches me and continues to stare.
“Turn around!” he urges me, and I shift my foot beneath me, twisting my torso toward the big window.
I can feel his eyes piercing me from behind, but I’m not ready to face him yet. His hands take the hair that sits on my shoulders, letting it cascade down my back, and then I feel him divide it into three sections. Samael does this sometimes when my hair is a mess. I think he enjoys braiding it, but he’s never actually said so.
“I’m not changing, silly. I’m just growing up, and that’s totally normal. And you’re growing up alongside me. You’re not falling behind because I’ll wait for you. Got it?”
“Do you promise?” I try to smooth out a stubborn strand behind my ear.
“Take your hand off!” He scolds me, and I shiver. “Of course, I promise,” he says, sighing and adjusting his tone. “Your hair is wet,” he murmurs, running his fingers through the long strands until reaching the middle, gently attempting to untangle them.
“Well... we got caught in the rain. It couldn’t stay dry,” I stifle a giggle, but the truth is I can’t contain my joy.
Samael’s hands in my hair, on a rainy Sunday. What more could I wish for?
“You’ll catch a cold, and this time, your mother won’t even let you near us.”
“She doesn’t know,” I shrug, firmly convinced.
“That’s what you think,” Samael finishes braiding my hair and secures it with the elastic from his wrist. He always wears an elastic on his wrist. I want to believe he wears it just for me. Boys don’t need elastics.
“Thank you,” I turn around and check my ponytail.
“Don’t touch it!” he grabs my wrist before I can. “You’ll ruin it again.”
“Fine,” I mutter, casting a quick glance over my shoulder. Suddenly, a foreign movement captures my attention and startles me. It feels as if the bushes beneath the window have shifted, but Samael’s question breaks me from reality.
“Why don’t you ever look me in the eyes, Becca?” he never takes his eyes off me and refuses to release my wrist.
I look at the spot where his fingers are intertwined around my wrist. He withdraws his hand and instead, his palms cup my bare knees like two cups. The warmth of his hands is pleasant, and my heart starts pounding.
“Because... I can’t,” I sigh and lower my gaze from his black hoodie to his hands resting on my bare knees.
“Becca, do you like me?”
“What?! No way!” I exclaim, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment as I clench my teeth, a bitter grin spreading across my face.
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t like me, and I’ll actually believe it.”
“And if I do look you in the eyes and lie? Are you seriously gonna buy anything I say?”
“I’ll know, because eyes never lie.”
For a few moments, a heavy silence hangs in the air. I fear that Samael might hear my heart pounding in my chest. My fingers tighten around the notebook, and I accidentally drop the pencil on the floor. As my gaze lifts, tracing the zipper of his hoodie, following the contour of Adam’s apple, and then lingering on his lips, the tension in my gut grows stronger.
“What makes you think I like you?” I murmur, already enchanted by the depths of his blue eyes.
“It’s just a thought…”
