HEART OF GOLD | CORIOLANUS SNOW

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 95

It was stupid—idiotic and mad, really—but he'd done so many of those lately, what was one more? He had already moved here on account of proximity. What was standing in his own balcony with all the lights off like a creep?

Beneath him, with not even the slightest breeze rippling the water, everything was peaceful—too peaceful. He wasn't accustomed to such quiet. Being in the center of the city, the penthouse was always surrounded by activity. Noise from the streets was commonplace, and he'd learnt to tune it out. Probably too well. It felt like a completely different world out here, with the silence and the darkness.

The night scape was bright and colourful from his window at home, but here, once the sun set, only a sparse network of yellow dots would be visible, emanating from the well-spread villas in the area. The only exception was the strip surrounding the south side of the lake, illuminated by anti-light pollution street lamps of the same warm temperature.

Ice cubes clinked as Coriolanus swirled his whiskey, waiting for her to pass. So far, he'd spotted her twice in two days, and though his luck was surely running out, he could think of nothing else to do—nothing else he wanted to do. Every minute, the same thought flitted back into his head: How long would he be willing to stay in his current position? Until his stomach growled? Until his feet hurt? Apparently, he was quite determined.

Downing the remaining contents of his glass in a single swig, he shifted his stance. Coriolanus hated himself. He hated all this weakness, all this lack of restraint. All this indulgence. It should be motivation enough for him to stop his nonsensical behaviour, but he hadn't crossed the line, he kept telling himself. Perhaps a line had been crossed—definitely it had—but not the line, and there was nothing preventing him from dancing upon it. Nothing but him, and he was useless.

Powerless.

After an indeterminable amount of time clutching an essentially empty vessel in his hand, unwilling to step away even for a refill, Coriolanus discerned a figure in the distance. Rounded caps fitted over their bulbs forced the street lamps' incandescence to be aimed strictly downward, forming symmetrical cones of golden glow that joined at their bases on the well-lit path. She would have no trouble seeing where she was going, and though her body frequently alternated through glare and shadow, he had no trouble seeing either—he would recognize her slender frame in his sleep.

For someone with such an extensive wardrobe, her activewear range seemed inordinately limited. It was the same combination of a sports bra and a matching pair of thigh-hugging cycling shorts every day, albeit in varying hues. The first night green, the second blue, and today: purple. Did she own it in all the colours of the rainbow? Did she choose the colour based on the day of the week? He wouldn't be surprised. What did surprise him was his reaction.

She had always had another layer on before: a baggy tank top with gaping armholes that revealed everything inside, then a jacket she'd zipped up only halfway. Admittedly, it was much warmer tonight. Stifling, actually, after a scorching day and a brief shower that not only failed to cool things down but added to the humidity. In the absence of any wind, even just standing here was causing Coriolanus to perspire. But when he glimpsed her abdomen, bare and flat and slick with moisture, and the damp patch over the valley of her chest, the heat he experienced was a different kind altogether.

Every day—well, three out of three, anyway—her sprinting would end at the bench just off of his yard, centered along the border between his plot and the next. Some of the stretches she did on her own, but some she utilized the wooden seat for support. Like now, as she rested one heel on it while planting her other foot on the ground. Although both her legs were locked at the knees, she was so flexible that she touched her toes easily when she bent forward.