He's always more careful than she is. He guards everything, holding it tight to his chest, fighting with every breath not to let her see how he truly feels.
"You don't have to care," she said softly, her smile gentle, a reassurance that she didn't want him to feel guilty for what they'd done.
"I can't help it," he muttered, frustration clear in his voice, unsettled by how easily she brushed it off.
"Really, you don't have to care," she repeated, her tone almost pleading. She didn't want him to feel any obligation.
"That's the thing. I don't care," he said, his gaze locking onto hers. "Did you hear me? I let things slide. I don't care. But this..."
"Oh."
She hadn't imagined that a simple "hi" would unravel her, that it would send them spiraling into something they could barely control.
His eyes lingered on her, dark and unreadable, studying her. He was trying to figure her out, to understand what she saw in him. Maybe he thought he was just playing the part, taking her words at face value, doubting whether he understood them at all, perhaps blaming the haze of the night due to the amount of moonshine he consumed. But she meant every single word.
His look gave him away—a man who did care.
She saw a man who was sincere, a man who listened, who felt deeply. A man who gave more than he asked for.
And that ... was intoxicating. Intoxicatingly attractive. Addictive. Fucking addictive.
He kept asking, "Why me?" and she always answered, "Why not?" But maybe words weren't enough. They showed each other instead, speaking with their bodies, communicating what words never could, tangled beneath the sheets.
YOU ARE READING
Moonshine
RandomDescription for this is a bit overrated, but there's really no end to this beginning.
