𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢

𝟸𝟸. 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗

❥ ignore typos. this is as good as it's gonna get.
___

Riding shotgun in Jean's Mercedes, his hands on the black stitched steering wheel, yours in your lap with brushing thumbs, your heart has risen to the surface of your mouth by an eager tidal wave made of avidity. You can taste the crystalline salt and frothy foam of your own inquisitiveness as they hit the pink-grained shore of your tongue in rhythmic unison.

Music is floating out from the tiny holes of the car speakers and seeps into your ears. The beat settles under your skin and rests there, making your cells pulse at the artist's musical innovation.

Taking a deep breath through your nose, you inhale the air circulating out of the open vents, one aimed at your face, the other down towards your legs. There's a hint of coolness while it enters you, making it faintly burn the very back of your throat. Relief greets your chest, and the bone of it inflates, and your lungs grow in size.

It smells of the masculine scent of Jean's black ice little trees air freshener, the faintest lingering build-up of weed left behind from who knows how long, and him. Always him.

Light musk, strong vanilla, and comfort.

Eager, impatient, and interested all at once, your upper body twists, facing Jean with somewhat sloping shoulders. Your lungs release all of what you just took in, the bone of your chest caving back in by your body's natural force.

Your gaze is now held on Jean's side profile as he switches from the far left lane to the middle one once the passing dented silver van is out of his blind spot. His features are all so pristine. Every detail is sharp, like thin-edged paper, structured yet smooth as he unknowingly bites down his teeth, making his jaw move in scattered pulses.

The back of your head bends against the window of his moving car as you speak over the music. Your eyes are set in stone on his side profile, never moving. "So I take it that wherever it is that you're taking me is a place that you're going to refuse to tell me?"

Prioritizing the conversation, Jean reaches his right hand out toward the high-end infotainment system. He finds the circular control knob toward the bottom right and twists it using two fingers, turning the volume down to hear you better.

"Exactly." His gaze flashes to you and then snaps back to the busy road ahead, landing right on par with where it was before. "And I take it that you're still gonna ask me questions about it anyways, even though you know damn well that I'm not gonna answer you?"

The music at hand can still faintly be heard in the background while your voice takes full precedence as you respond. Moving your shoulders around, the curve of your right one presses into the soft cushion of the passenger door. You mimic him wittily, "Exactly."

A sound, rough as gravel, tears out of the back of his throat while the speed of his car starts to slow, creeping up to a freshly turned red light. The sun, in all its rarity, lifted high in the sky of Trost, is hitting him directly in his eyes which are webbed with colors that look a little bit like his forever-hidden, beating heart.

Brightened rays play instruments of glowing illumination on his clear skin. You swear he almost glistens against the bands of yellow-hued light. Unreal. Unearthly.

It's an inexplicable sight that warms your gut and never leaves. Dazing in the powerful feeling it brings you deep within. Eternal in the way it rests at your center like the pit of a bruising peach living far past its ripened time frame.

It's overly frustrating, the way it never stops. And what's even more aggravating is how hard you must work, almost by the second, not to acknowledge it. But you do whatever the hell you need to accomplish that challenge.