“Shh.” He holds a finger to his full lips and winks. His gray eyes are bright, crinkled up at the corners, full of laughter.
I flash a smile back and turn around, nodding at whatever she is telling me. It’s a good thing that she seems to require only my occasional murmur of assent. What with his constant presence, the air that he disturbs as he walks, the electrified breeze of his movement behind me, I don’t hear anything that she is saying.
As we round the corner, he makes his move, slipping his hands forwards—his right hand knuckles brush my face and I flinch as they burn me—and covering her eyes. She turns around and their lips brush, their mouths harden, their bodies lock together.
I walk away, grinning. I helped him. He smiled at me.
But the flare of excitement ebbs. The flush fades out of my face as I walk down the gray halls, replaced by a dull throbbing ache somewhere just below the center of my collarbone. It wasn’t for me. His smile, the brush against my cheek, the wink of a co-conspirator. It was for her.
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