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Love

Thoughts keep rushing through my mind as I stupidly stare at Will. I expect his coal eyes to be ablaze with anger, withhold any kind of negative emotion, but instead, when he lays them on me, they're warm and gleam with happiness which I cannot explain. I'm staggered.

"Didn't think I'd find you here," Will says once he approaches us.

My subconscious falls to her knees in a desperate act of submission, swept off her feet by his masculinity.

"Didn't know you were looking for me," I retort, crossing my arms over my chest, remembering the cruel way in which he ignored me for the past few days.

"I was actually going to pay you a visit at your dorm. I want to talk to you, but first, I need a minute with my father, if you don't mind." His jaw twitches slightly as he mentions his dad.

I mutter, "I was leaving anyway-"

"Just wait for me, please," Will entreats, the fingers of his pale hand snake around my forearm, making my stomach involuntarily somersault when he starts gently caressing my skin with his thumb. "Please," he whispers, cocking his head to the side, his eyes soft and warm.

"Okay," I acquiesce, unable to resist this man.

"Thank you," he mutters quietly, then walks away with his father to a secluded corner.

His good mood confuses me.

I fiddle with my fingers, my sight loiters around the gallery. I don't want to stare at them. They might think that I'm being inquisitive, trying to read off their lips what they're talking about.

Minutes later, Will says some last words to his dad and turns around, starting to make his way towards me.

"Are you hungry?" he asks out of the blue.

My forehead creases. "I thought you wanted to talk," I mutter cooly.

I might have developed some feelings for Will, and I am incredibly sorry for everything that has happened to him in his life, but regardless of how sympathetic I am, I still don't think that any of the misfortunes that he encountered should be used as an excuse for his ignorance.

"I do, but I'd rather talk somewhere else," he explains freely. Then, met with my stubbornness, he lets out a heavy breath. "Okay, I'll say it now then. I know that I shouldn't have ignored you nor talked to you the way I did." He grabs a gentle hold of my chin, his thumb and index finger tilt it upwards. "I'm sorry, okay? Can we just go have some food together, please?" he asks evasively, as if he didn't want to dwell on his feelings, which he probably doesn't since his name is William Reyman.

"Okay," I capitulate, rolling my eyes at the way his face rapidly brightens. "Why were you going to my dorm anyway?" I ask, curious.

"To bring the dress back. The one that you left in my house."

I nod my head in comprehension, remembering that yes, I actually had left it at his house, but it's been so long that I completely forgot about it.

"It's in the car," he explains further.

"Okay," I respond, wanting to reach for the fake-leather strap swung over my shoulder but as my hand goes up, so does Will's.

My heart starts beating faster in abrupt excitement when he grabs my palm into his, then gently slides his fingers in between mine. The sensation of his soft skin against mine is oddly familiar. The pounding in my chest intensifies once I recognize this feeling. My cheeks turn rose-red within seconds, which obviously doesn't go unnoticed.

Will squeezes my hand a bit tighter. "You're blushing," he points out, leading me out of the gallery. "What's the reason?"

"It's nothing." My response is timid, but my heart begins to flutter.

I understand the familiarity behind the sensation of us holding hands. The ancient memory of me secretly intertwining our fingers in Will's room rushes back to my mind. And as I shuffle through the pile of many events from my past, I can't help the involuntary smile that blossoms upon my face because after so many months we're finally doing it - holding hands for the first time ever.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Go ahead. Try it." Will points at an antipasti platter that he ordered for us.

I purse my lips in indecision, my hand hovers above the variety of neatly prepared food.

"Just pick something." He chuckles, amused, nicking a slice of salami and quickly stuffing it into his mouth.

"It's really hard to choose, okay?" I giggle quietly, then fill my mouth with a black grape and a cube of cheese. "Mmm, this is . . ."

"Delicious?" He smiles, mixing some sugar into my coffee, for some reason peeking over to the side.

"Definitely." I smile serenely and start nibbling on some peanuts. "I haven't been here before," I add, scanning the beautiful interior of the café we're currently in.

Along with ink-blue sofas there is a couple of kendall, velvet, grey chairs that are adjacent to numerous, rustic, raw-wood tables. Above our heads hung chandeliers decorated with plants. The walls are adorned with a fake, dense ivy.

I retrieve my eyes to Will. "I love this place." My voice is merry.

"We can come here more often if you want to," he offers kindly, sipping on his flat-white coffee, giving another very brief glimpse to the side.

It causes me to stealthily copy his action, but the only people that I can notice are undoubtedly a couple, maybe a few years older than us, holding hands at the table, laughing and gazing into each other's eyes.

"You okay?" I ask inquisitively, knitting my eyebrows in confusion.

"Yeah, I'm alright," he responds, positive.

I begin to think that maybe I'm just paranoid and look for an unnecessary drama.

"What made you come to the gallery then?" he asks abruptly.

I almost choke on the olive that I decided to pop into my mouth. "Um, I just wanted to see your work once again." I shrug, taking a small sip of my drink. "And some other ones as well. I didn't get the chance to check them all out during the exhibition."

"And you were talking to my father because?" Will drawls the last word.

I sigh heavily, wrapping my fingers around the warm mug. "He came up to me as he figured that you must've told me about Beverly." I shrug again. "I was surprised that he's already back. I thought that you were going to be mad at him for a bit longer, if I'm being honest."

"I still am," he responds frankly, his sight involuntarily peels away from my face and diverts to the nearby couple, making me now more than certain that something is up.

"Okay, what's wrong?" I ask, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"What do you mean?" He frowns, confused, staring back at me.

"You keep looking over to the side. Do you know those people or what?" I question, intently studying his face, searching for any trace of emotion in his expression that would help me figure him out.

"No, I don't."

"Then what's the matter?"

"It's nothing." He clears his throat and circles his fingers around his mug, shifting uncomfortably in his seat for some unknown reason.

Is he nervous? He never gets nervous.

"What is happening to you today?" I ask, bewildered.

"What do you mean?" He glances up at me, and as he does, he looks just as confused as I am now.

"First you turn up at the gallery, all merry and that, talking to me nicely, as if you haven't ignored me for a few days. Then you keep staring at some randos, and when I ask you why, you seem oddly nervous. What is the matter with you? Are you on some medicines now-"

"Really, Davina? You think that I'm on some happy-pills because I saw my father make out with my ex-therapist?" He shakes his head, offended.

"Then tell me. What's going on?"

"First of all, when I came to the gallery I was fuming because I was going to speak to my old man, but then I saw you, and after not really talking to you for almost a week, it made me cheerful. Seeing you just simply made me happy. Is this a crime, officer?" he asks in a mock insult, and beams when my laughter reaches his ears.

"It better not be, otherwise, I'd be forced to handcuff you," I reply slyly, popping another olive into my mouth, watching the expression on his beautiful, derailing face change from amused to appreciative.

"That's if I don't use the handcuffs on you first," he fires back.

I blush, suddenly intimidated.

I clear my throat and change the subject back to the initial one. "So?What's the deal with those randos? Why do you keep glancing at them?" I ask again, observing the way Will pushes his mug away.

He lays his dark eyes on me. "Sometimes I wonder what it feels like, okay?" he blurts out.

I frown, confused. "What does?"

"Love," he mutters shyly.

I can not believe my ears. Is Will Reyman asking me to explain to him the meaning behind the most powerful feeling in the world?

"Oh." Is all I can muster at first. "Well, I can try and describe it to you if want me to?" I offer, staring into his onyx eyes that are now blazing with curiosity.

"Bring it on," he responds, and rests his back against the velvet chair, regaining his self-confidence.

"Well," I start, fidgeting in my seat, looking for the right words.

This is my only chance to convince him that loving people isn't so bad after all. That loving me wouldn't be so bad. I can't ruin it.

I take a deep breath and ponder for a second before some idea finally crosses my mind.

"You know that feeling when you're extremely famished and then you have the first bite of your favourite food? But only the first one?" I ask.

"Yeah, I do." He chuckles humorously. "It's like tasting heaven," he explains, and fights back a laugh.

"And you know when it's summer time, and you just sit there in the evening, by the ocean, watching the citrine sun go down, and you just can't get enough of how beautiful its rays look when they reflect from the water?"

"Yes. The sun's glitter has always mesmerized me," he responds once again, this time some seriousness layered his voice.

"And what is your favourite scent? But think of one that you just can't buy." I take another sip of my coffee, patiently waiting as he thinks deeply.

"Probably the smell of blossoming cherry trees or the rain on a pavement on a saultry day, or, you know when it's summer and you take a freshly-washed, dried T-shirt off the clothes line? It smells like cotton and your mother's favourite softner, but for some reason it only smells good during that time, doesn't it?" Will asks, eagerly participating in this conversation.

I've never heard such excitement to be laced within his voice, which causes me to involuntarily smile at him.

"Yeah, I do." I shoot him a warm stare. "And do you like it when you sit in a garden on a nice, hot day, and everything around you feels so peaceful? Like, the grass underneath your feet feels softer, the sky seems bluer, the quiet buzzing of insects somehow doesn't annoy you but soothes your senses? When you can just hear a faint sound of your currently favourite song come from inside the house, being played on the radio, whilst you let the sun warm up your exposed skin and the summer breeze clash gently against it?"

"Yeah, I adore that," he rasps, subsequently clearing his throat, awaiting my next words.

"Well, Will," I start confidently, gazing into his eyes. "Love is everything that you feel in those moments but combined into one. Everything that makes you indescribably happy and you wish it could last just a little bit longer. The thing is, though, those moments, no matter how much you don't want them to, they always slip by. Love however . . . love is something that you can grasp on. It lasts," I mutter quietly, and anxiously bite on my lip, meanwhile studying the way Will's eyes narrow whilst he thinks deeply about something.

"Now I understand why you chose to study creative writing," he responds, taking me aback.

"Why?" I furrow my brows.

"Because what you've just said was truly beautiful," he explains, and surprises me even more when he reaches for my hand, then places his own on top of mine, and starts fondly stroking it with his thumb. "Just like you." He locks his captivating eyes with mine.

His compliment makes this moment become nothing but all of those things that I've just described, making me wish for this sweet side of Will to stay forever and never slip by.

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