Jensen always saw you as someone he needed to be a role model for. His moral compass pushed him to be a ‘stand-up’ guy for you. You were half his age after all. He spoiled you growing up, your father hated it. You’d leave for a car ride with Mr. Jensen and come back with fifty different knick knacks you hardly had space for in your room.

At some point, lost in the fog, the ‘kid’ became ‘sweetheart’. He blinked and you transformed into an independent person. An adult individual who’d fully found themself.

You were enigmatic, you were everything. He was enraptured with your presence, and he ached to decipher these feelings for you. He’d still take you for joyrides in his car—but it was different. Undeniably different when he watched the wind blow through your hair and the sun illuminate your complexion.

He brought you back to your apartment, you gave him a parting hug. His strong arm encircled your waist, you on your tip toes, him craned downward to rest his chin on your shoulder. His scruff tickled the crook of your neck. You were so small. He pulled back, a warm smile breaking the often stone-face he held. His tongue darted over his bottom lip. His eyes became troubled.

Then you kissed him.

He reciprocated like you were the air he needed to breathe, your bags from the shopping spree on his credit card hit the ground. He pulled back and brought his hands down to your shoulders, you couldn’t tell if he was trying to keep you back or prevent you from leaving. He couldn’t either.

His face furrowed and he stared down at your small fidgety hands. “We can’t, sweetheart. This isn’t…” His eyes drift back to yours, the sage hue of his irises brightened by the overhead light. He wished you could, but you couldn’t. Right?