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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NOAH
It's right here, in front of me, but it's too jumbled. Out of order and misinformed.
I'm sitting at my desk up in my loft, staring at the papers spread out in front of me. The essay for my MA application to GoldwenU is right there, half-written, but the words are all...jumbled. They blur together like ink running on wet paper. I can't make sense of any of it.
I try to focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to her. To Cam.
She's the reason I'm applying.
She's also the reason I can't fucking focus enough to finish the goddamn thing.
I close my eyes, leaning back in the chair, and suddenly I'm not here anymore. I'm back in that library, the day we first met. She was sitting at the table, hopped up on caffeine, completely lost in whatever she was trying not to read. She noticed me right away, and when she did, the way her dark eyes met mine—sharp and curious—it was like she was sizing me up, trying to figure out if I was worth her time.
Or maybe, if I know my girl as well as I think I do, she was trying to figure out if she was worth mine.
I knew then that she was different. It wasn't just the way she looked—frizzy dark hair curling at her temples, that crooked nose, a gap between her teeth, and that stubborn set to her jaw—it was the way she carried herself. Confident, but she was hiding something. She never wanted anyone to get too close.
But I got close. And now she's asked for space again.
See, she didn't ask per se, but I know my girl.
I erase a sentence from my essay because the words feel wrong, too forced, and try to rewrite it. But all I can see is her, that same stubborn set of her jaw the day I went to her place, and she was covered in CO2. She looked like a snowman, and she was so damn pissed that I caught her in that moment, swearing under her breath as she tried to wipe it off.
And yet, even then, she let me help her. Let me close the distance between us, let me be near her. I remember the way she shivered my lips brushed hers, like she wasn't used to someone touching her so gently.
Another sentence goes, another attempt at focusing on this essay, but my thoughts slip away again, this time to that day at Kits Thrifts. She was looking at jeans, and then suddenly, we were in the dressing room, and I was making her come with my hand. The way she looked at me after, like she couldn't believe I was real... God, I can't forget that.
And then there was that day she laid in my bed under my ceiling stars, talking about poetry, her voice soft and quiet, like she was sharing a secret. Words, powerful ones. But now, sitting here, staring at this essay, I wonder if I even know how to use words at all.
I rub my eyes. I was in love with her at any one of those points, wasn't I? How am I supposed to write about my future when all I can think about is the past?
