He watches her.

It had started as an obligation, something he had to do, a task he was ordered to perform.

It wasn't that she's not pretty. In fact, she's so damn pretty he swore that three-quarters of the male population in her school wouldn't pass up the opportunity that he has now. Yes, he had noticed that much; he wondered how she could hold that untouchable barrier around her, deeming her invincible. Nearly blind to the attention showered upon her.

He watches her, and his gaze lingers.

They had found a certain degree of understanding and respect after a period of time, yet it baffled him still how she managed to conceal the kind softie she truly is, behind that entirely cold exterior.

'Cold,' he chuckled to himself. Oh, the irony.

She was almost always dressed in red, as was he – as if they were truly meant to be together. Maybe her insufficient spell was really, truly part of some higher being's sick plan to set them up as an unlikely pair. And, 'cold' probably wasn't the right word to describe her when she was angry. She'd had her occasional burst of fierce temper tantrums, an accolade to her perfectly matching attire.

Red. Fiery. Hot.

He watches her still, from the corner of his eyes.

She was the indomitable, cold Ice Princess – yet also she was one with a sweltering, raw passion inside of her, just waiting to be completely unleashed. He did witness the signs of her inner warmth radiating when she was pleased with something.

When she was pleased with a mission completed, for instance.

When she was pleased with his service.

When she was pleased with him, by just being...his smug self.

She was the Ice Princess. He would provide her with enough heat to melt her defences. Fire is his blood, after all.

He watches her now with a lazy smile painted on his face, anticipating her next move.

She stares at him coolly with a look that could only mean a dare – her dare for him to keep watching her as she ambles towards him with steady, confident steps – which then faltered when they are merely inches apart.

Watching her eyes travel to the intricate designs on his breastplate, unable to meet his deep, scorching gaze any further.

Watching her fingers tremble as she timidly traces the fabric of his crimson-hued coat.

Watching her chest heave upwards and downwards, unsure if this is what she really wants.

Still, there hasn't really been any skin-on-skin contact, so he finally decides that it's enough with the 'just watching' and leap straight into the next event.

Touching.

When he touched her, it was something else entirely.

As an ethereal being, he constantly yearned to touch and be touched. Certainly he wouldn't be able to do so in his incorporeal form, but she had summoned him and he had all the reason in the world to feel another human being against his skin, even if for a short while.

He touches her now, tenderly stroking her cheeks, thumb grazing her lips. This is something he has thought never to happen after their unceremonious first meeting, although he did mull over his chances from time to time. He admires the way her hair cascades magnificently as he unties the black ribbons holding them in place, running his fingers through the dark, silky strands of her flowing hair.

And then, electric.

Their lips meet in a light, butterfly-like kiss which is so unlike them, considering their ferocious, untamed dynamic. There is no need for rushing, though. Gently, he coaxes her mouth open to let his tongue taste the sweet curves inside her mouth. Deepening the kiss, she begins to respond to him, hungry for more.

She wants a taste of him, too.

What had started as a slow, innocent seduction has turned wild and wanton.

Hands roaming, groping, touching everywhere. Her fingers tracing, while his entering uncharted, forbidden territories. Caressing, grasping, seizing to claim each other fervently.

Mouths nipping, nibbling, sucking any sight of bare skin as they find themselves swimming in a sea of blankets, sans their forgotten discarded clothes. Tongue teasing, licking, tasting sensitive buds.

The exchange has been quiet so far – words are unspoken – as he hears only the increase of her heavy breathing and sounds of ruffling sheets. Then she begins to pant, trying to stifle her moans, working hard to not say the one word that will only serve to boost his ego –

"More," her whisper escapes in a voice not quite like hers.

"More," she pleads. Guttural.

The silence is broken.

A throaty moan soon follows -- yet he is surprised that it came from him -- not her, as they move in synchronized rhythm to find release.

There is no use, really, to curb the sounds, the noises they make. The supposedly deliberate and safely calculated moves they intended to take now have broken into a wild route of animalistic desires; nourishing their senses with nothing but each other.

Filling every gap and emptiness; every part of them they believed to be deficient.

Knocking off every sense she has left in her, leaving only his.

Knocking off every sense he has left in him, leaving only hers.

The exchange is complete.

So when he leaves the next day, never to return, she reminisces.

She may never be able to see him smile his haughty smirk anymore, hear his deep voice grumble over her decisions, nor feel his warm, calloused hands closed over hers in a comforting attempt. She will only remember the bittersweet taste of his masculinity, his lips over hers, his tongue delving into her mouth.

Now she walks towards the unmade bed.

And stops.

And breathes in the unmistakable scent she knows so well.

His.

Wrapping herself in her blankets; the companions of her otherworldly journey the night before, she breathes even deeper into the sheets.

Finding gratification. Finding him.

Accepting her loss, accepting her gain.

Accepting his departure, accepting his departing gift.

Her sixth sense tells her that he's still around, through his memories.

Etched forever through her senses.

And so, he continues watching her.

Just...watching.

Nothing more.