Illicit ✔

four

But this was different—this was him, live, in person, for her viewing pleasure only.

She fidgeted in her spot on the couch, toying with her black button-down shirt as she sensed heat rising to her cheeks. "Hi, Ryan. RyRy. So good to see you."

His smile widened further and he leaned in closer to the screen. "It's good to see you! And you're just... a wonder to behold, aren't you?"

She clenched every muscle in her body to hold in a squeal of delight, of excitement, of happiness. Those eyes—light like the waters crashing over a beach in the Florida Keys, exotic like an aquamarine gemstone, impossible to look away from. She was drowning, and they'd only been talking for two seconds.

"What about you?" She giggled, but covered her mouth, fearing he'd catch her drooling at his perfect physique. "All grown up, all adult-like! You're handsome, and you know it!" She sucked in her lips, worried she'd been too forward too fast; it was a flaw of hers, being unable to avoid blunt words from spiraling out.

Don't fuck it up already!

His light brown skin flushed as he rubbed the back of his neck, the slightest of shy smirks slithering across his mouth. "Stop. You're the pretty one. I mean," he looked down for a second, biting his lip, then yanked his chin up again, "those eyes, Cora. That mix of blue and gray and green... still as hypnotizing as before. They were my favorite feature of yours, actually. Wondrous, expressive, showing all your emotions."

"Okay, you stop it," she said, lifting one shoulder to her chin and batting her lashes. "I always loved your eyes too, RyRy."

Maybe she did know how to flirt; but only with him. Because with him, she was comfortable, unhinged, able to show her true self—after all, he'd known her for over twelve years.

He hadn't changed a bit. The same low-key awkwardness to how he held himself, but now accompanied by broad shoulders, bigger arms, a certain confidence in how he cocked his head and peered at her with more sincerity than anyone ever had. Not like he was undressing her, but like he yearned to see her, her soul, her thoughts. Back in the day, he did the same thing—when other guys objectified her, he asked her about her feelings, and took them into account. When she complained about Benjamin not listening to her, he listened, and never bickered, never mocked her dramatic sixteen or seventeen-year-old self.

One glance at him now showed her that boy was still there.

"I have to say, I love your hair," he added, again angling closer to the camera, as if about to reach through and slide his long fingers through her curls. "When you cut it a few months back, I almost commented on it. And that platinum shade is so you."

She had no doubt her cheeks would explode if he continued basking her in compliments. "Okay, enough. How are you? Where are you?"

"In Madrid," he picked the phone up and rose from his chair, "I'll be here for a few days. The brand is launching a new store in a densely populated area." He flipped the camera to display his hotel room—sleek, modern, but understated, mostly in shades of royal blue and white. "This is how bosses are put up, you see."

He gave her a tour of the suite, from the black metallic door to the fluffy pillows he couldn't wait to sleep on, to the complicated shower he'd was afraid to test out.

Every word out of his mouth relaxed her, yet aroused her. Every sentence, every mention of a childhood memory, every inside joke brought a warmth to her heart that she hadn't experienced in months, if not years.

He woke tiny butterflies in her gut when he returned the camera to himself and lounged on the bed, propping his elbow against the headboard to hold his head up.