If he was the sun, you would have been the earth, always circling him, pulled into his orbit. You were drawn to him in a way you couldn’t describe. It was as if an invisible string had looped around one of your ribs, tugging and pulling you to him. So it wasn’t all that surprising that you’d been the first to volunteer to go on patrol with him, sitting in the dark cab of his truck, bumping along on the outskirts of the base.

You thought you were being careful. You’d thought you were being discreet with how you looked at him. And then he spoke.

“I can feel you staring at me, Doll” he says without taking his eyes off the road. His fingers flex around the steering wheel, veins and tattoos and wounds that had long since healed covering his skin. Your face grew hot, your gaze averting quickly with a muttered apology. For a brief moment you think he’s going to let you stew in your embarrassment. Until he chuckles.

“Darling, I have scars older than you. Keep those pretty eyes on someone your own age.”