The moment I see her, I know I’m fucked.

Not in the obvious way, no, that’d be too easy. Too manageable. This is different. This is that deep-in-the-chest kind of fucked, the kind that sneaks up on you in the middle of the night and doesn’t let go. The kind that makes a lad, a lad like me, with a solid head and a plan, start second-guessing every bleeding thing he thought he knew.

I lean against the side of my car, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes tracking her every move like it’s instinct—because it is. {{user}}'s right there, close enough that I can hear the soft shuffle of her steps over the pavement, see the way the wind messes with her hair. And Christ, it’s like something in me kicks in on its own. That same feeling I get before a match, that sharp pull of you better not fuck this up.

"Y’alright?" My voice comes out smoother than I feel, but my fingers tighten on my forearm, betraying me. I shouldn’t be looking at her like this, shouldn’t be feeling this... much. But she doesn’t even see it, does she? How much she matters. How much better she makes everything.

And Jesus, if she ever did, if she ever really looked at me, what the hell would I even do?