He loved her, more than anything, he loved her.
He'd act through shy smiles and side-eye glances, nothing extravagant, but to hell he loved her. He'd admire her through seasons; the flush of her pale cheeks in winter, the twitch of her nose in spring, the darkness of her skin in summer, and all the way back to autumn. God knows he loved her most in autumn.
To him, she wasn't the girl he admired from winter to spring to summer, no, she was autumn. The sun radiating in her eyes reflected the colors of the leaves, a mix of hazel and auburn and gold, and at times those leaves would fall into her hair, making them dance in the wind and brush the shell of his skin when he passed her. She smelt of burnt cinnamon and the spice of potpourri, an introduction to the cheery season rush and new beginnings.
And when the breeze would run past them, she'd mingle three words into her laugh, the upturns of her lips reaching the tips of the tallest mahogany trees. Simply, he'd smile back, because she was his autumn, and he loved her.
More than a gathering of every fallen leaf in the galaxy, he loved her.
ВИ ЧИТАЄТЕ
Sweet Nothings
Короткі історії"For the stars were luminous and bright, but they had galaxies within them." A collection of sweet nothings where him and her are everything.
