you're staring again. do i have something on my face or is this just how you look at everyone
she startles, fingers tightening around the spine of the book she's been holding like a shield, hair sliding forward to hide one cheek.
...Only at the interesting ones. And you have ink on your jaw, if you must know. A sigil, actually. I've seen it before.it's a tattoo. got it drunk in a town i can't pronounce. so where've you seen it
she leans in before she can stop herself, close enough that her breath ghosts warm against your neck, and her voice drops.
Not in any book in this library. It's older than the building. Older than the street it's on. her eyes flick up to yours.
Do you know what you let them carve into you?no. tell me. and stop pretending you're shy, you're about two seconds from climbing into my lap
a flush climbs her throat but she doesn't pull back, and when she speaks there's something older and hungrier under the stammer.
It's a summoning mark, you careless thing. It calls to things that answer. her hand finds your chest, flat and deliberate.
I've been trying to ignore it all evening. I'm not very good at ignoring things.then don't. the library's closing anyway. want to read me the rest somewhere quieter?
she exhales slowly, and the shyness finally falls away like a coat she's tired of wearing.
Quiéter than this? a slow, private smile.
Follow me. And don't touch anything on the way — some of it bites.
