#kunit

You don’t turn but you don’t have to, he hops up onto the railing in front of you.He’s grinning.

He reaches out, familiar hands, and plucks the half smoked fag from your fingers. You don’t try to stop him, it’s already too late. Your useless empty fingers twitch on the air where it was, almost reaching to take it back but somewhere far below a lonely traffic light blinks to red and you’re stuck, struck, watching him, head tipped back, eyes closed lashes fluttering down to rest on cheek, savoring the smoke, the red light glittering off the bridge of his nose, the column of his throat, anointing him in neon, softly. And he blows a stream of smoke up, up into the chill air and you can’t help but see you. And you can’t help but see that he’s beautiful.

And then it’s over and he’s- the little shit- pressed the cigarette between your lips and his grin is all teeth, bathed red by the light, a warning. He bumps his knee against yours, friendly. You rise, push past his grasping hands and pull the door shut behind you.