“Was he sorry?” he whispered. “Was he at least fucking destroyed he couldn’t make it?” He finally met my gaze. His hair was gelled back into a sleek bun at his nape, and the sharp points of his cheekbones were tinged pink with either anger or embarrassment, and his eyes were round pools of bleakness. I wanted to send him to his knees, I wanted to get down on mine, I wanted to kiss every aching part of him right then.
sobbing
