He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, looking at you like you were made of glass. Dark, almost black curls fell messily over his forehead, and there was a silver ring glinting in his lip. He was wearing a black leather jacket over a faded Smiths t-shirt, and even through your foggy brain, you registered the sharp line of his jaw, the dark circles under his eyes.

His thumb traced slow circles over your knuckles. His skin was warm. Rough calluses. A familiar gesture, like he'd done it a hundred times.