The Fìdhlear ✔️

•*Chapter Eleven; "Evander & Lewis."*•

THE night that I found my mate was indifferent. I could've sworn I've never fidgeted more in my entire life. Even my family could tell I was nervous. 

I could smell that delicious scent of something I've never smelled before as soon as we all walked out of the bar. I could've sworn it had to be the best thing I really have ever smelled though; like fresh linen, or a field of daisies. It was alive.

The trek towards this café that Adair, Arlo's mate, worked at was long and painfully excruciating to know that that scent was only getting stronger. The hair on the nape of my neck was standing up, and my arms were littered with goosebumps. 

My father always told my siblings and I that meeting your mate was different for everyone. You could faint, get whisked into a trance-like state, or even throw up—that's what my father said happened to his grandparents, his grandpa being the one to puke. 

I'd never really given much thought to finding my mate, as Erin or even Arlo had. It wasn't really important to me. Mostly because I realized something from a very young age; that I was gay.

I knew it really didn't matter, and that nobody would actually care, but I kind of kept it a secret and rarely talked about my feelings.

But now, knowing that as we were entering that café I knew the scent was male made me really want to act on it and kiss whomever he was senseless.

I was subtly looking around as we sat down, my legs bouncing in anticipation. I barely heard my name being called, my eyes fixated on everyone around me. I stopped for a moment and looked down, but as soon as I did, my head shot back up and my gaze was directed on someone across from us.

Green eyes brighter than a field of grass were staring at me incredulously. I blinked, trying to process what was happening, but it was like my body was on autopilot as I stood up from the booth and walked over to those beautiful eyes.

I sat down across from a beautiful, if not gorgeous man. He was tan, surprisingly so because we lived in Scotland, and it was almost always dark and stormy. His skin was littered in reddish freckles caused by the sun, kissing his soft features like a whisper.

His parted lips moved to say something, but as soon as the word mate left my mouth, he was shut up. I gazed at the man before me, his emerald irises wide with wonder. His floppy golden hair was tussled in such a way that made my hands itch to touch the soft strands, and as my pulse quickened, I could feel my hands moving from my lap.

"Wh-who are you?" He asked quietly, his voice different from his looks. It was in a mid-level from high to low, and had an edge of curiousity that I could tell would always be there. His slight accent of what I could tell was Irish made me smirk.

"Evander. And you?" I inhaled his scent, basking in it from so close as I resisted the urge to take him far away from this café and get to know him better.

"Lewis," he said, the name dripping off his tongue. I do badly wanted to mark him. Make him mine.

"You're mine, and mine only," I murmured lowly, my voice taking an edge of possession that mad his hands tremble. I picked up his hands that sat on top of a book, a novel I recognized as Great Expectations, and loved the way his soft skin felt against mine. His hands were smaller than mine, but not by much, and definitely sinful.

"Yours," he responded, his delicious eyes looking up at me from under his lashes. I could tell that he was affected by me, the way his pupils dilated and his lips trembled telling me he was practically begging me to kiss him. I took in a deep breath and swept my short, white-silver curls that usually formed upwards out of my face, his eyes following the movement.