“Have mine,” he tells me, offering me his mug, but I don’t notice what’s in his hands because I’m distracted (always distracted) by his face. “Your what?” “I meant my coffee, but…” He smiles. “You can have my—fuck—have whatever you want. Have everything.” His tongue is pressed into his bottom lip, his pupils are dilated, and his gaze flickers from my eyes to my mouth to my eyes to my mouth to my eyes, and he swallows heavily.
