My laughter grew louder and louder, to the point of hysterical and his hands were still on my face, smoothing my hair away. I found the situation incredibly ironic. He'd been the one stuck in a flashback and I was the one freaking out.
"Hey," He murmured, drawing my chin up with a finger.
My eyes sought the bandage on his nose and I remembered the fight he'd been in only a few days ago when he'd broken that kids nose.
Karma's a bitch.
I found myself surprised that these soft, tattooed hands against my skin had brutally beaten more boys than I knew of and that these gentle, dull blue eyes staring into my own could have been filled with so much anger.
My gaze dropped to his lips. They were full and slightly parted as Tate stared at me and I remembered when he'd popped a cherry between them in the library one afternoon.
There he was, sitting in front of me with flushed,hollow cheeks and inky black hair dripping onto his forehead.
He was a stranger.
Yet, I felt like I knew him better than anyone else at Truman High.
I'd seen the soft side of him, the side that thought to bring me cherries, and I'd seen the rough side of him. The side that broke noses and spit on people. I'd also seen his panicked side. The side that rocked in my closet and cried out in fear.
He hadn't seen as much of me.
And I wondered if he wanted to.