For a long moment Henry stays where he is, unmoving, his eyes fixed on Riley's sleeping face.
He takes him in piece by piece, like he is memorizing a painting that he knows will vanish if he looks away.
Long lashes fan against pale skin, delicate yet stubbornly dark. Strands of messy hair have slipped across his forehead, curling where sleep has left them.
His skin is smooth, porcelain stretched over youth, the kind of untouched beauty that doesn't try to be noticed yet demands to be seen.
And then there are his lips... swollen, reddish, parted just slightly with the kind of softness that pulls Henry's gaze down again and again until it aches inside him.
the ache sinking into places he hasn't touched in years.
Everything about Riley looks good, too good.
He wonders for a second what strange magic brought this boy into his life, how something so ordinary on the surface... a simple young man could unravel him with so little effort.
