relaxation is uncommon for him: a man on the move, constantly running, a race to a finish line that doesn’t exist yet, but it’s different with @s4ints , it always has been. they lay intertwined, connor’s face buried in her hair, breathing her in, his breath slow, steady before he retreats, the warm darkness of sleep slipping away, losing the battle of desire to look at her, to make sure she hasn’t left yet as the first rays of light begin seeping through the window panes; casting a soft orange hue over the duvet. she glows as the sun kisses her skin, and connor is in awe of the warmth that pools around her.
if he were artistically inclined he might ask her to stay still, might paint her wrapped in white sheets hair splayed across the pillows in a way that reminds him of wings outstretched. instead he tries to memorize her. eyes dancing over every perfect imperfection. the sun could hold no candle to her.
after last night, i think i'm in love with you.
starstruck look slips into something else: something more reserved. softness melts away the same way he does around his father, his siblings, when they jab mercilessly at insecurities in a way only family is capable, before his expression hardens.
“ willa, don’t. ” he says quietly, after a moment, hardly longer than the pause between heartbeats, he repeats it sternly. “ — don’t. ” a seriousness to him that could rival logan himself. it feels cruel. like when he was in boarding school, when a girl would ask him out and then go back to her gaggle of friends to laugh and giggle behind his back. when his love notes were passed around like cheap cigars, their hushed voices just loud enough for him to hear. what he means to say is : i won’t pay you to say that; “ you don’t have to say that. ”
what he means to say is : i can handle that lie from anyone else, but not from you.
