He had long, long fingers. Beautiful fingers. They wrapped themselves gracefully around the characteristic red pen leaning into his palm, flexing inward and outward to fit against the shaded lines on his paper. The porcelain white of his teeth pushed into the soft flesh of his bottom lip, shoulders hunched into the effort of putting emotion in ink.

Ice has never been as warm as it is in his eyes, his frigid blue-gray lenses that draw my heart out of silent submission like a cracking fireplace, dangerous but beckoning. His dark lashes flashed across the ice and he refocused upwards, full lips moving easily to the right answer, the interrogator immediately backing down from his chase. The lines on the paper began once more, and the rigid angles of his shoulders relaxed, curving themselves inward.



His long, long fingers wound themselves in my hair, tugging gently, porcelain teeth greeting me from behind his smile, unsure.

?Can you help me??

I always could. I always can. With one shaking fingertip I gestured towards the correct formula, telling him the things that I knew he already knew, my palms clammy with want, unrest. The smile came back and his icy eyes found mine, fingers reaching up to touch his hair, pat it down, a silent question, where do we go from here?

The answers get stuck in the middle of my chest, and I want every single thing that you don?t.