"Don't go."

His sigh whispers across her skin, brushing deep into her body—pulling apart her bones and breathing warmth into her heart. She looks up into those BlackBlackBlack eyes that see clear through her, into the place where all her secrets are kept, close inside her ribs, and read every insecurity like the pages of a book—they stare back at her, and she feels as though she might just fall into them, drown in him and become part of him. It's scary that it doesn't seem like such a bad thing.


BlackBlackBlack eyes watch her as she clings to the front of the button down shirt she bought him last year, because the blue was as smoky and deep as his voice—she'd said, the scent coming off his skin swirling around her—filling her up with cinnamon and cigarette smoke, until she feels like she might just float away. He sighs into her hair, watches the way it drifts on his breath, curling like fire around his unspoken words, and he knows he'll stay—if only for one more day.



Her eyes are GreenGreenGreen, and when she's not looking, he likes to watch them. They turn emerald when she's mad, and sea green when she's sad. They go almost blue when she's happy, and they shine when she looks at him—and all those colors come together into this color that he doesn't have a name for, and he hates her because she represents everything he hates-beauty and popularity, the easy way she can talk to anyone, the way she looks right through him and it feels like fire curling around his bones-the way she's everything he's ever wanted.



The first time she met him, she could've sworn he was art. He had to be, with the way his hair curled close to his temples, and his eyes danced with silent, vicious mocking when he'd caught her watching from her locker—her fiery hair falling every which way, her lip forever trapped between her teeth, green eyes wide and curious.

He just looked too beautiful, and she knew right then and there that he was different from everyone else, with his beat up leather jacket and the combat boots that thunked down the halls, his shoulders stiff, head held high. Vain. Proud. Cocky. Utterly uncaring, as though the world revolved around him and him alone—and for that—she kind of hated him.

But, she knew the first night he crawled through her window and kissed her, knotting his hands in her hair, crushing her against him as though he was trying to make her fit in with all the other secrets she knew he was hiding—that she loved him almost as much as she hated him.



She never seems to leave him, floating around in his head, tasting like whiskey on his tongue, burning—bitter and addicting.

She walks past him, her hair swinging back and forth, up in a painfully high pony tail that brushes the middle of her back—her head turned to some chick he doesn't remember the name of—not that it really matters. He reaches out, and grabs her waist, pulling her back against him, relishing in the way she molds to all his hard angles—forgetting, just for a moment, that they hate each other.

That fucking hair of hers brushes against his face as he bends down to her, it smells like lilac and roses—and he can't help but groan quietly at how it seems to wrap around him, pulling them together until she's burning him and he's slicing her apart.

She turns in his arms, her GreenGreenGreen eyes a million different colors that he has no real name for—and she winds her fingers into his hair, pulling his mouth to hers, breathing into him until all he can taste is the burning that he now associates with her.

Then she's gone, disappearing off into the crowd again, and he goes back to slumping against the lockers, his heart banging against his ribs—remembering just how much he fucking hates her.



Sometimes when she's alone, she closes her eyes and stays very, very, very still—sometimes she can see him, as though he's walking out of the gloom—his black eyes watching her, gleaming with this expression that she doesn't know where to place, his arms hard around her—crushing her against him.

It's almost real, the way he drags his mouth over her face, neck and shoulders—his teeth grinding into her collarbone hard enough to bruise—and her arms wind around his neck, her nails gouging into his skin, tearing at him, as though she's trying to strip him to nothing but bone as he attempts to crush her, oh so sweetly.

And, oh god, she hates him, but she loves him so damn much.



He stands outside her house, staring up at the window through the pouring rain, the moon high above. Something in him says that if he stays there long enough, she'll know and come to the window, that she'll whisper over the pitter-patter of the rain, tell him to come up, tell him to come to her.

Because that's how it goes every time he comes here.

The rain pounds down around him, soaking him to the bone, and he can feel her watching after an hour—waiting, for what he doesn't know. Her face hovers on the edge of his vision as she leans out the window, but doesn't make any move for him to come up. She leans there, her arms resting on the windowsill as the rain soaks into her tank top, as her long hair falls forward, hanging heavily down around her thin shoulders—her GreenGreenGreen eyes watching him.

Finally, he turns, the rain pouring off him, and sees the sun coming up over the trees. He glances back to her, and finds her still watching him, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it's pouring, and that the sun is coming up.

He leaves, his boots squishing in the mud, feeling her eyes on him all the way down the road.



She can't really remember how they got into his car, or how her back ended up crushed against the window, her head thrown back against the glass as he dug his teeth into her skin, hot stabs of pain rushing through her as she tore at his hair, his fingers digging into the dips of her waist, bruising her, claiming her with the purple marks that decorate her skin—and she wants him too.

Her nails tear at his skin, ripping his shirt, leaving behind angry red marks that tell the whole world that he's hers, as her legs wrap tighter and tighter around his hips, until they're so close together that she doesn't know where he ends and she begins.

"God, I hate you!" She hisses in his ear, sinking her teeth into the skin of his shoulder until hot blood rushed out, and filled her mouth. His cry is music to her ears—ringing deep into her, settling down into that place between her ribs, as this moment becomes another secret.

His mouth crashes against hers, his hands throwing her against the car door again, the cold of the night pressing against the bruises blooming on her back. They meld together until they're the same person, their blood fusing, rushing through them both, veins twisting together, bones clashing together and creating a song that is purely them.

His words are raspy in her ear, as he twines his fingers through her hair—tying himself to her, forgetting, in the moment, who and what they are.

"I love you, too."



He lets the warmth of the sun soak into the black of his hair, bringing the cigarette back to his lip, breathing in death. The world is quiet here, outside the school, between classes—watching the smoke drift away from him in lazy spirals.

He tilts his head back, breathing out smoke, and he knows she's there, watching him.

She leans against the wall a few feet away, her eyes just as wide and curious as they'd been the first time he saw her. He watches her from the corner of his eye, taking in the way her pale, delicate hands plucked at the hem of her shorts, her milky white legs shifting, back and forth, back and forth—her hair falling forward over her shoulders, shimmering like flames.

"You're beautiful."

"You are too."

BlackBlackBlack eyes clashing with GreenGreenGreen that were so many colors he didn't have names for. She didn't move as he moved closer, his arms reaching for her.


She gazes up at him, her breath fanning over his face, flowing through him, swirling in his skull, twining in around his spine—filling him until all he can taste is the burning that he knows is her and her alone. The look in her eyes slams around in his ribs, settling into the place where all his secrets are kept.

He looks so pretty, his hair falling into his eyes, BlackBlackBlack eyes that stare at her, that make her feel as though she's about to fall into them—as though she'll drown in them and spend forever drifting through him.

She knows, when she slides her hands up to his shoulders, her fingers smoothing the worn fabric of his T-shirt, feeling the hard muscle underneath, the burning heat of him against her palms—she knows she'll stay.

If only for one more day.