There wasn't an issue of whether it was going to happen or not. It was about when.
And when it had happened, she could feel the thrum of life in his heartbeat. The dimples and the crooked nose. The cracks on his bottom lip. It had all left her brain, all but the scent of his skin. The irrelevance of his physical characteristics were replaced by the dwelling of his fingers around her ears, spraying across and through her hair. And she used to think being a dreamer was a horribly impractical thing that ruined her like poison to the system. But he was an antidote, rushing through her blood, lifting the weight of the heaviest of her useless fantasies.
