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short chapter, but here we are :)
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SEPTEMBER 5th, 1996
"I don't think your friend likes me very much," Maxon says to me in his light French accent, tilting his head up so his eyes meet mine.
"Mm. He's not my friend," I say absentmindedly, flipping a page in the book I'm reading before peering over it to look at him.
I'm on the ground leaning against a shelf near the back of the library, my legs outstretched and thighs acting like a cushion for Maxon's head. His tousled waves are just as long, hooded eyes just as brown, and smirking lips just as soft as they were when he was fifteen, but now it's been two years. It's been two years, and now his jawline is more defined, facial structure more mature, and just his whole body has certainly grown.
"Really? Il te regarde tout le temps [He stares at you all the time]."
"Peut tu le reprocher [Can you blame him]? I wouldn't take my eyes off myself if I were him."
Maxon snorts shortly, and then his hand lazily drags up to pull my book out of my hands, ignoring the way I gasp softly and shoot him an irritated scowl. He closes it and pushes it out of my reach even when I make a grab for it, instead trapping my hands in his and smirking up at me casually.
"Tu as raison. Je ne peut pas le reprocher [You're right. I can't blame him]," he says with a mischievous twinkle in those earthy brown eyes, his hands bringing mine up closer to his face until he's pressing his lips to my fingertips. "Je ne pensais pas que tu pouvais être aussi jolie que dans mes souvenirs [I didn't think you could be more beautiful than I remembered you]."
I scan his face slowly, taking in the thick swoop of his brows, the stray hair that crosses over his face, the creases at the corners of his eyes from smiling, the sturdy bridge of his nose, the gentle dip of his cupid's bow, and the soft brown shade of his smooth skin. I pull one of my hands away from his lips, moving it to smooth his hair so it isn't stuck between the back of his head and my thigh, and then, without warning, I yank on a lock of it.
"Putain [What the fuck]?!"
"In case you couldn't tell," I say, leaning over his head to grab my book again and flip through it to find my page, barely biting back my smirk while he rubs his head and pouts at me, "I've grown up a bit since I was fifteen. It takes more than some sweet-talking for me to pull my skirt down."
"I wasn't trying to pull your sk—"
"Don't lie, Maxie, I know you too well."
"Oh?" he asks challengingly, already pushing my book out of my face again to look at me.
