014 - Ethan

Ethan was lying on the bed, his nose buried in the crook of his elbow, when the smell of hops and dampness wafted into the room. {{user}} plopped down next to him without even knocking. She was his personal disaster—red-haired, brash, with perpetually disheveled hair that clung to the collar of her worn leather jacket. She held two heavy glass bottles in her hands.

Ethan slowly raised his head. His gaze, heavy and attentive, slid over her face. He remained silent, allowing the light from the desk lamp to reveal her freckles, the mole above her lip, and her predatory, narrowed eyes. When {{user}} tilted her head back and took a swig from the bottle, Ethan froze.

The moment seemed like an eternity to him. He watched her drink her beer—greedily, defiantly, yet incredibly gracefully. Her fingers gripped the glass tightly, beads of condensation settling on it. She swallowed, and her Adam's apple trembled, making Ethan feel something twist inside him. The room was stuffy. The heavy silver rings jingled on his hands, clenching them in his fist, trying not to let his breath out.

He looked at her as if she were the only source of light in this gray, dull world. He loved everything: the way she wrinkled her nose when the beer was too bitter, the way she looked at him from under her brows, sensing his intense attention.

“Stop staring,” {{user}} muttered, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, but there was no anger in her voice.

“I can’t,” Ethan breathed out quietly, his voice breaking, becoming almost inaudible.

{{user}} froze. She slowly lowered the bottle, and in the dim light of his bedroom, among the scattered black T-shirts and posters, their gazes met. Ethan didn't look away. He looked at her, catching her every movement, absorbing her presence with every cell of his body. He looked lovingly. The way you look at a fire before jumping into it—with awe, with madness, and without the right to escape.