You were fifteen when you first noticed him. And not in a good way either.

You see Rose trying to talk to him, and feel as if it were a personal affront when he doesn't respond.

You didn't know then that that was the way he always was.

You march over, and wave your hand in front of his face. He doesn't look up. You tap him on the shoulder, and he lifts his head, slowly bringing hazel eyes to meet yours.

"Wow, you're beautiful," he says, and your eyes widen in confusion and surprise.

"What?"

"I think you're beautiful. And I'd like to paint you."

"Oh. Okay."

Behind you, Rose smirks because she knows what Lorcan is like, and what you're like, and she can see the inevitable.

You were fifteen when he first noticed you, and you have become his everything. And he becomes your everything.

You sit under the shade of a beech tree by the lake, his head leaning against yours while he sketches the rising sun.

"Why do we have to come out here every morning and watch the sunrise? It looks the same every morning," you say, barely keeping your eyes open, and your sentence is punctuated by yawns.

"Because I like to watch the sunrise, and you like to watch me. And I like spending time with you," he says, and because you are always honest with one another, you neither agree or disagree. Though you know it's true.

He flips a page of his sketchbook, and the blank paper hits you on the nose, leaving a small red cut.

"Oh, sorry," he says, without looking up. You aren't offended. You know it's just his way, so lost in thought he doesn't notice much else. You decide to see how far you can push him, to see where your boundaries are.

"Want to kiss it better?" you tease, and his eyes widen. He looks at you, and you hold your breath, daringwishinghoping.

He looks away, and you shock yourself with how disappointed you are.

You know then.

You're his.

But he is the boy with the stars in his eyes, and the butterfly dreams, an angel that never floats to earth.

It's another sunrise.

He is painting you, your red hair illuminated by the pink horizon as his brush touches the page. Your eyes sparkle as you look at him, and your secret is getting so hard to hide.

Your tired eyes close, but you push your gaze up through your lashes, determined to keep them open.

He walks towards you, paintbrush in hand, and a faint wind stirs his hair. His hand is on your cheek, and your breath hitches and you dare to dream your maybes. He turns your head, and retreats.

Of course. You are the girl with the red hair like fire, and eyes that shineshineshine like a thousand suns. You are the girl who watches, and listens, waiting for the whisper of the wind.

You are determined, this time. You just say it, becoming more and more the girl you used to be, before the sadsad smiles and the acceptance that you've lost before you started.

"I love you."

A deadly silence sweeps across them, the air so still it seems a puff of air will knock him over.

And then…

"I know."

"You, you, what?"

But you remember those words from the past, when you thought you had everything, were everything.

("I think you're beautiful. And I'd like to paint you.")

And you begin to hope, that maybe, just maybe, the breathy words he spoke when he thought you couldn't hear were the start. The start of something.

And you should lean forward and brush his lips with yours, and speak words of love and forever and ever. But he's Lorcan, and you're you, and you don't work that way.

"Well," you clear your throat, "and where does that leave us?"

"I love you too, of course."

Silence. You process his words, hardly able to believe it. You'd never envisioned a scenario where he liked – loved – you back.

"At the risk of being cliché, shouldn't you kiss me now?"

"Of course."

And your lips meld to his, and it's like every fairytale you've ever read, except its real and it's true, and you'll never let go.

"I think we should breathe now."

"No."

When Rose finds out she smiles, because he's him, and you're you, and she could see the inevitable.

For PrincessPearl, for the 'Write Me A Story!' project.

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