His breath is minty and warm; an inviting scent that you have to ignore as you dress his wounds. However, standing in-between his legs as he's propped up on your bathroom counter and the hard stare he has on you that never falters makes you weak in the knees. Trying to control yourself, you sigh, the immediate scent of smoke hitting Stanley's nostrils and he flinches, not accustom nor a fan of the strong smell that now lingers in the air.
You notice the way the boy leans back, as if searching for the fresh air you rudely deprived him of in order to breathe and as you watch him discreetly, yet subtly move away from you, you suddenly regret every cigarette you ever smoked. Embarrassed, and face flushed red with the emotion, you look down. "Sorry." He quickly apologises, noticing his subconscious actions from your sublte response.
Despite the apology, not once does he make an act of moving back to his previous position.
"It's fine." You whisper, purposely stopping yourself from cleaning his face and instead you begin working on cleaning the few cuts he has on his hands, too embarrassed to even look at him.
You don't notice it, but he's looking at you. Watching the way your hands move around his grazes. The way you occasionally push a lose strand of hair behind your ear. How you purse your lips together. He's watching you furrow your eyebrows together. Watching you concentrate.
That's until you look up.
As if it's a routine, Stan removes his stare from you and immediately directs it to something else, as if you weren't even there. He's good at doing that: making you feel like you don't exist. Even now. Even when you're fixing him up, inches away from his face.
Dreading it, you move to his face once again, making sure your breathing is subtle; ensuring your smokers breath doesn't disgust him too much. You dab the wet rag against the cuts on his face. The bathroom is silent until you press a little too hard and Stanley winces, instinctively grabbing your wrist and squeezing it. Upon hearing his grimace of pain, you pull the rag away from his face and in the process, Stan lets go of your wrist in realisation that he was holding it.
You don't say anything and instead, remain silent. You can feel a lump forming in your throat, as tears form around the brim of your eyes, blurring your vision slightly. Because he's making an extra attempt of trying not to look at you, Stan doesn't notice your state until a few minutes later.
"Hey, hey..." He stops you from tending to him, a look of worry on his face, as you turn your head away, even more embarrassed if that was even possible. "Why are you crying?" He asks, his full attention now on you.
It makes you mad that he doesn't know. Because he should know. You want to scream. You want to hit him for being so stupid. For acting like everything you two had gone through mean't absolutely nothing to him. Like none of it happened. But instead of screaming or hitting, you cry. The tears you tried so hard to fight, finally falling from your eyes.
"Because, I'm so in love with you."
It's mumbled and difficult to understand through the quiet sobs and choking on tears, but he hears you and it catches him off guard. His eyes go wide and lips falling agape, at a loss of words. He opens his mouth, but you beat him to it. "It's like I don't even matter to you-"
"I'm scared." He cuts you off, tears now forming around his eyes. His voice is nothing but a whisper and you're glad you'd heard it because you knew if you hadn't, he wouldn't of said it again. Theres a deafening silence that enters the room, and you nod, "Me too."
Stan pushes himself forward, his lips are inches apart from your own and he stops, as if thinking something over. "Your breath stinks." He tells you. You almost shove him and leave until you notice the curve making its way on his lips before it turns into a shit eating grin.
"That wasn't funny-"
His lips connecting with your own cuts you off.