random oneshots

he does know

very spur of the moment thing....I LOVE IT THO my mind went to lorenzo zurzolo who i knew existed just yesterday when a BEAUTIFUL VIDEO OF THAT MAN APPEARED ON MY FYP AHHHHH anyways, you can make "him" anyone you want

if you know me NO YOU DON'T, enjoy the story ;)

Word count: 1769.

It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I sat on the sidewalk in front of a motel where the rain missed me by mere inches. I had a cigarette on my lips, the fifth one today. There was a book next to me, Women Who Think Too Much. I'd just gotten it today. I really liked the title,  but knowing myself I'd probably only finish it next week.

His car pulled into the parking space right in front of our room. He had a black BMW, and though it had a large scratch on its right side, it was still very good-looking. Like him. He walked out, not caring about the rain soaking his clothes and his flowy hair. He opened the back seat and took out a brown bag. I didn't care what was in that bag, I just cared to admire him and make sure to memorize everything about his appearance.

A loud noise indicated that the car was locked, and he turned to me. He walked towards where I was sitting, looking into my eyes. He has dead eyes. They are very beautiful.

I don't smile, and neither does he.

He sits right next to me, letting out a tired breath as he runs a hand through his soaked hair. I glance at him, but I'm more confident when I don't look at things that take my breath away. I look at the reflection of myself in a puddle to avoid looking into his eyes. I know he's looking at me.

Without saying anything, he reaches into the brown bag. It makes a loud rustling noise. Eventually, though, he takes out a jacket and places it on my shoulders. I immediately look in his direction, but he's already gone. Gone behind me, and I can hear the motel key jangling and the sound of the door closing when he's finally inside.

I gulp to avoid blushing. It doesn't help. I feel the blood rushing into my face. I take a deep breath, it's shaky. It's not from the cold. To be honest, I wasn't the least bit cold. My armpits and my hands were sweating, because of him. But I was never going to tell him that. I'd never tell him because the gesture was so generous I could jump up in happiness. I don't.

I take a last hit of my cigarette. I throw it into the puddle that once had my reflection. It sizzles as soon as I throw it into the mere inches from the sidewalk. I take my book and myself. I take a deep breath before I walk into the room.

As soon as I close the door, the sound of the shower mixes with the sound of rain. I look around our room. It's small. Two beds on one side, and a TV that I don't think works on the other. A small kitchen area in one corner. I spot the brown bag. I'm not curious to see what's inside when I see his clothes neatly folded on his bed.

I walk to my bed on the far side of the room and sit down. The bed creaks with my weight. I struggle while I take my knackered converse off. When I do, I put them to the side so he won't trip on them.

My head hits the pillow and the tiredness washes over me. I relax my whole body and let out a deep breath. My eyelids flutter, threatening to pull me to sleep. They're interrupted when he walks out of the bathroom.

The steam lightly spills from the bathroom, but he's the hottest thing in the room. I merely glanced at him, not wanting to stare. It felt forbidden to stare. Like he was so beautiful that I didn't deserve to look at him.

I could hear him and see him in my peripheral vision, but my front vision was admiring the dirty ceiling. It's easier to look at things that don't take my breath away. I'm suddenly not tired anymore.