The sight of him, sprawled across the bed. Enough to stop you mid-toothbrushing, mid-humming along to a sleepy song, enough to stop your heart, just to breathe in the sight of his flushed skin and damp hair, darkened eyes that watch you move through bedtime motions, and you hurt with wishing you were staying, not running back to a cold, ugly library to choke down economics and adderall. Realizing, as you pause at the foot of your bed and he smiles, that you could look at that everyday that you can picture in your future. The heady rush of knowing what you can do. The sudden consuming wall of attraction that you can't hold back and the fierce kisses that hold words you can only hope he hears. The real shower, after the first and after the consequences that came from the first, covered in soap and trading hot water time and laughing and him stepping out. Coming back to wrap you in a towel before you can reach for one and wrapping you and the towel and your messy mane of hair into him, where your head fits to the crook of his neck and your mouth presses to his pulse while his presses to your forehead and you sigh his name.
And you leave with glowing skin and bright eyes, giddy and smiling.
But you still have no idea, do you? Because he won't tell you and you won't ask.
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