It would be those moments, in those cold, hard desks. The one where she wouldn't be able to see him look at her the way he did, the long lingering glances at the back of her neck, where it sloped under that collar to meet the drawn out scent of peppermint drifted together with the smell of roses dusted into the tips of her hair on her shoulders.

Her flesh was pale. When she moved, brushing back strands of blonde, the delicate and strong muscles in her back would ripple, drawing his eye even closer to the rest of her. She always had a little bit of hat hair; they were her favourite accessory. But it suited her.

He watched her breathing, her breasts rising and falling in rhythm with the small sound that accompanies her annoyance with a teacher occasionally. He leans forward, onto his elbows. She doesn't notice, she just reads and listens to him, talk to himself about nothing. Snide little comments. Song lyrics.

She leans forward, just for a second. He instinctively follows, and swallows a gasp when he opens his eyes, and she's right there. Facing away from him, smelling just as sweet. He doesn't want to draw away, but he knows he must, and just in time. She turns, and asks him something.

Those eyes. As close to his colour as you could get, but infinitely more enticing. And warm. Her body is always warm, even though her hands are cold as ice. It's also in those accidental touches, of just their fingertips. Sparks. Not even. Like warm hot chocolate. Smooth, sweet, and just right.

He always wonders if it's meant to be. Everyone tells him it is. She might feel the same, but he's never sure. It's confusing, this feeling. Lost. Mixed signals. And he's afraid to stare. She always catches him.

If only he knew, that she's the one that can't look away.