Adrenaline.

4.

F O U R

✧

"It happens to the best of us," he argued as he stuffed his mouth full of the fluffy pancake. Syrup drizzled down his chin, and he looked up at me, grinning with pure joy. His caramel eyes lit up, once again, making me feel intrigued. His eyes said everything about him. Even though I met him only hours ago, his eyes always had a story to tell. It felt as if I had known him for an eternity just by what his glistening eyes conveyed.

Feeling his confidence radiate within me, I reached over the table and swiped my thumb across his chin, wiping away the remainder of syrup. We locked eyes for a few moments, but it wasn't intense—It felt normal... it felt right.

His eyes softened as if he was thanking me with his orbs. He then cleared his throat and looked up at me curiously, begging me to respond.

I giggled nervously and shook my head. "What do you mean it happens to the best of us? I'm sure Bill Gates hasn't had a stripper take a lollipop out of his mouth and shove it up their coochie."

He snorted and broke out into laughter. "Hey, listen, I was only sixteen—"

"Sixteen?" I shouted in disbelief. The customers dropped what they were doing and glared at us. "Where was your mother?" I joked, forcing out a laugh.

His eyes darkened. "Not there."

He cleared his throat once again and glanced into my eyes. "So tell me about you, Nova?" he asked sincerely, trying to change the subject. I scoffed and shook my head, trying to suppress the uneasiness that was rattling inside of me. "What is there to tell?" I muttered, not knowing what to say.

"What isn't there to tell, doll face?" he retorted as he raised his eyebrow curiously. He stabbed the pancake with his fork, ripping it apart. He didn't bother to cut it. He just continuously shredded the pancakes. He didn't look down at them for even a split second. His eyes were on mine, and it almost seemed like he didn't take the time to eat his food the right way because he couldn't remove his eyes from mine.

Maybe I'm being observant, but it was noticeable.

I sat there awkwardly for a moment, trying to muster up something interesting enough to tell the intrigued boy. But to face the cold truth, there was nothing interesting about me. The only thing that's consistent in my life is my mattress. My bed is used for everything, except sleeping. I eat, relax, paint, and do everything that I possibly can on my bed. I don't leave it. There's really no reason to.

So I must lie.

He lifted his eyebrow a little higher as every second passed. I stabbed a piece of pancake, and shoved it into my mouth. I then took another piece, and tossed it into my mouth. Then another. And another.

If I'm eating, I can't talk...

I then stabbed another piece of pancake and lifted it to my mouth. I paused when his hand grabbed around my wrist lightly, restricting me from stuffing my face. He then slowly pulled down my hand, and removed the fork from it. He moved at a leisurely pace, watching my reactions to every movement he made. Scanning my face, he observed me intently, making sure I was comfortable with everything he did. The way he carried himself was robotic almost, as if his brain processed every individual action before he carried it out.

Most people don't think before they do things. It seemed to me as if he thought too much before he did something—no matter how small the action was.

I paused and looked at my fork in his rough hands. Tattoos were inked all over his knuckles, stretching outwards as he clenched the fork in his fist. My fork sat there, haunting me. Knowing that I can't get out of this conversation is terrifying.