His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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—————————— école school ——————————
N O A H
I live my life by gut feeling. Some things feel right, and some feel wrong.
The lecture hall's hum fades into background static again. The history of the 20th century stretches out on the chalkboard in a timeline I can almost touch. But my notes have long veered off course, my pen sketching a picture instead.
An underdog's silhouette against the steps of Philadelphia's Museum of Art. Rocky. An icon of persistence.
That party was days ago, now. I don't even know how many.
I've seen Camila since, a glimpse across the campus green, her silhouette drowned in baggy black clothes against the autumn blaze of maples and oaks. She didn't see me. Before I could whistle, catch her attention, she was running up the steps into the Social Science building. Gone.
Feels like I lost something. But you can't lose something you never had, right?
Fucking Akira. Her jealousy is the malicious kind, is ugliest. Never liked her. Too touchy, too smiley, too fake.
Akira—wrong.
The lecture drones on, my professor's voice a dreadfully monotonous echo.
Camila—right. I felt everything her heart, her laugh, her skin, her body. Fuck, I really felt her body. Her warmth against me, her hands on my chest, the softness of her skin under my lips.
And she left soaked in beer.
Fucking hell.
Class ends, and the shuffle of students packing up fills the silence. I pull my hood further over my head and wait for the room to clear before moving, my limbs heavy. Then I leave too, slinging the bag over my shoulder.
As I thread through the thinning crowd, a voice pulls me from my musings. Lily from seminar class. She won't leave me alone, and never takes a hint.
"We haven't had a chance to talk in weeks." Slick chestnut hair pulled back, grey eyes sharp. A little gold hoop through her septum. "I enjoyed your take on the Cold War dynamics last week."
"That's nice, thanks." I can't find a reason to care.
Lily shuffles closer, a confident move. "Maybe we could—"
"Sorry, I'm a bit preoccupied."
I'm out, walking away, gone.
My mind's filled with Camila—her laughter, the curve of her smile, the way she moves. The bow of the softest-looking lips I've ever seen. How fucking easy it was to talk to her. Death, funerals, colours, history, business, it didn't matter.
