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He steps down from the balcony, cool and calm as always, stopping just before our chests meet. I’ve seen this before; I’ve seen him with those eyes like that before, but never has he been staring at me with them, all fire and ice and fear and curiosity swirling in black pupils.
He steps back just enough not to hear the breath that rushes into my lungs to keep me standing. The tension is too much. I can feel my blood, pulsing up from my arms into my neck and down my shoulders again. I am positive he can hear it pushing through my veins.
His lips are wet, just barely. He is in need of a shave soon says the reddish tint dabbed along his jaw. Why are my hands shaking? Up close I realized how defined his cheekbones are, as high as a woman’s, but with a sharp definition unlike I’ve ever seen, carved under his eyes. He blinks, twice. A pink tongue darts out exposed before he works his lips to form a sentence, but which lose confidence and seal ag