Mark My Words || DNF Soulmate AU

Chapter 49

Half-lidded green eyes that seem to glow fluorescent.

George steps off his ride and thanks the driver, smiling and nodding as he rubs a sweaty palm subtly against the fabric of his black pants. He slams the car door shut and steps back as the driver speeds away.

Purposeful fingers that rest gently against heated skin.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and checks the location again, squinting at the shop names around him to figure out his surroundings. Eventually, he comes to a decision and steps forward onto the street. The little bag in his other hand sways with his movement.

A caress that crosses a half-open mouth, a light pinch on the lower lip that tugs a pout out of shape.

George stuffs his phone and hand into his jacket pocket as the seeping cold air chills the temperature of his exposed skin. He'll turn right up ahead and get to where he wants to be, should all things proceed as they should. He adjusts the mask on his face and the hoodie covering his hair.

Slow ceasing of any motion that laces the air with anticipation, and then the tender beckoning tipping forward to press-

George's step stutters, and he comes to a complete stop after recovering his initial slip. The bag in his hand sways forwards and back, protesting the sudden pause to his movement. His heart is racing him down the street, and the layers of clothes reach peak stuffiness. Another moment and he might completely overheat and combust.

Lips that fit too well against the mold of another, opening and closing in a steady rhythm of heartbeats.

"Stop," George whispers to himself, "Stop stop stop stop stop."

Imagery threatens to overspill and George desperately turns his attention to anything but the titillating course his mind leaps through. He stares at the cracks in the pavement, the uneven tiles that don't quite match, the off-color splotches that decorate the city street. Maybe the depressive greys on the floor can move his mind to more serious business, away from the vivid daydreams of his own conjuring.

I'll be thinking about kissing you, George's own words bounce torturously into remembrance and he has to physically restrain himself from slamming his head into a traffic light.

Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy.

George pulls out his phone and checks the time. It's 2:00 p.m. sharp, any later and he'll be late for the meeting. He closes his eyes as he takes a deep breath, but snaps them open as the first outlines of more fantasies threaten to progress into clarity. His breath is snuffed along with his effort to relax.

Pavement, pavement, pavement, door, door, door, door, handle, handle, handle, George repeatedly chants as his vision sweeps across the objects in front of him, Bell, bell, bell, bell, coffee, coffee, coffee.

The paired sensations of the shop help to push back the bursting imagination of George's mind and overwhelm him with a new sort of feeling. It has been forever since he visited a coffee shop, and though he had been aware of the location prior, the warmth inside and the sharpened scent of coffee with a hint of vanilla still hits him in a perfume of richness.

Wooden planks cover the walls and give the whole place a homely feel, and chairs are arranged in threes and fours around wooden tables a shade darker than the material composing the walls. Hanging light bulbs glow in muted orange and compete with the natural lighting outside to provide the place its wash of colors and visibility. Behind the counter, a few workers dance between the machinery filling cups with an assortment of bitter brown liquid. A deciding customer stands in front of the cashier, gesturing at the elevated menu sign as the worker takes his order.