He hated it. Every fibre in his body burned with pure hatred when he saw you, doing anything at all. You could be doing chores, helping out in camp or just simply sitting or standing anywhere; he'd throw you glares.

His motivation for this obscure detesting?

He grew sweet on you.

A man; a goddamn beautiful man you were. He found himself staring at your chapped lips as you spoke and they curled into a memorable smile, your fluttering eyelashes as you blinked and patted your sunburnt cheeks, your hands as they ran over your scalp and pushed your hair back, your eyes as they bore into his own across camp.

He was infatuated, obsessed.

But this wasn't Micah. No, he knew something was simply wrong with him; a flaw in his system, that's what it has to be, right? His stomach churns at the thought; how he'd sin and sin until he'd put Lucifer himself to shame—but couldn't accept his feelings, ever. That, in his eyes, must've been the worst sin to commit; acting on his desires, loving you.

He watches you like the sun, his mind wandering in all sorts of sinful, disgusting ways he could never say out loud; and it isn't even sexual. It's just... you. Wanting to feel your lashes brush against his cheek as your chapped lips feel his skin, your hands as they brush his own hair and your eyes as they stare just as deeply as ever at him.

God, he can't stand it much longer; his eyes burn and he can't help himself, conflicted between looking at you and away from you; unsure which one he wants more.

You were sitting down at the campfire, sharpening your knife. A steel block in your left hand as the right one drags the blade over and over again, making the weapon nice and sharp for it's next usage.

He watches you do so, occasionally trying to look away yet failing; you're so goddamn mesmerising.