He didn't move away. I leaned closer and closer until the scent of him hit me, the faintest wisps of tobacco mixed in with stronger mint. Did he smoke? I'd never noticed. Or maybe he had been around someone who smoked earlier today, and the acrid tang had clung to him until now.
It didn't matter. It was him. I was so close that now I knew the scent of him, and I didn't care why or how.
Don't reject me, I thought, but the words remained in my head, failing to find my tongue. It didn't matter. I had come this far. I couldn't stop now.
The scratch of his day's-end stubble brushed against my fingertips. When had I moved my hand? And why couldn't I stop it? But I didn't want to. His breath caught when I skimmed my nails over the slight scruff, and my heart soared like someone had taken it
