heaven-sent | b.h.

01.

She sits on the edge of the cliff face, pine trees surrounding her as though they are yearning to be close to her. Her sky is tinged a soft pink by the setting sun, and the light steals the pigment from her eyes, leaving her once green irises a strange, translucent grey. She hasn't even noticed that he is looking at her. The heavy tread of his boots against the damp forest floor couldn't have pulled her out of her daydream if they'd tried. Only when he clears his throat does she look up at him, surprise pressing her lips open so that a silent, subtle gasp can escape them.

"I know you," he says gruffly, kicking his boot against a rock that falls into the ravine below them. "You're the chief's kid."

He notices her hands wrap protectively around the camera sitting between her legs as though she's afraid she might drop it despite the leather strap that keeps it hanging from her neck at all times. He can't recall a time at school that he's seen her without it, now that he thinks about it.

"Right," she agrees, surprise replaced by indifference as she turns her attention back to the sky. "Can I help you, pretty boy, or did you just come to tell me who my father is? You're about seventeen years too late on that front." 

"Alright, smart ass," he rolls his eyes, though he's fighting a smirk as his tongue runs over his bottom lip and he pulls a cigarette out from the carton already in his hand. "You think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're insufferable," she responds without missing a beat. "What are you doing here, Hargrove?"

"Ouch," He raises his eyebrows, placing the cigarette between his teeth and pulling a lighter from his jacket. "Can't imagine what I've done to deserve such an accolade." He pauses. "And don't get your panties in a twist. I was on a drive, thought I'd stop for a smoke. Didn't realise you'd be here, ready to shoot me down."

"Well, here I am, so either pass me a cigarette or piss off."

He obeys to the former, sitting down — no mean feat with his tight denim jeans restricting his movement — and passing her a cigarette. She doesn't make eye contact with him as she slips it into her mouth, though she waits patiently as he lights it. The orange glow illuminates her face as he cups his hands around it to protect it from the cool October breeze.

"Not thinkin' about jumpin', are you?" he questions after she takes a drag, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

"I wasn't," she replies, "until you showed up."

He chuckles at that, the smoke from the drag he had been taking falling out with it. "Must be hard."

"Excuse me?" Her eyes are glassy and her nose pink in the cold.

"All that fire in you," he elaborates, balancing his cigarette between his thumb and index finger. His cheeks dimple slightly as his grin spreads, his blue eyes sparkling as the sunlight bathes him in gold. "Must be hard to have to hide it, what with your dad being a cop and all. You wear that camera all the time to make him think you're still a good little girl?"

Her eyes narrow, eyelashes casting shadows over her cheekbones. She still has a baby face beneath her makeup, he sees, her face all soft lines rather than sharp juts. Maybe that's why she's so hostile: short girls with baby faces are always the first ones to bite his head off — he learned that the hard way.

"You don't know shit," she says, standing up and stubbing out her cigarette with her toe. The smell of lavender wafts off her clothes as she moves. She walks a few steps, leaving him to sit alone with his legs swaying over the edge, before she turns back again. "And for the record, Hargrove, I have the camera because I like to take pictures. I'm not like you. I don't need to pretend to be somebody I'm not."

Another involuntarily laugh escapes his lips as he glances back at her, his palms pressed against pine needles and his cigarette hanging from his mouth. "Whatever you say, angel."

She's already walking away when she calls back, "I'm no angel."