A/N: If you want more chapters you'll have to comment lots more, guys. I love reading them. They make it worth it.

Tate was more honest than the other boys his age, and maybe that's why I liked him. 

His blue eyes were staring into my own, not as dull as usual. My confidence slowly seemed to melt away under his gaze. He was so tall, I barely came up to his chest. I had to tilt my head up to meet his eyes, and suddenly I didn't want to. I glanced down, focusing on the leather jacket clutched in his hand. I wondered how it would feel around me, If I let myself get all wrapped up in it the way my feelings were all wrapped up in him.

He'd said he had feelings for me, but that's ridiculous. We'd barely talked at all. It had only been a few weeks since he'd taken notice of me at all.

"Is it just a physical thing?" I managed to say, running my eyes over his pale hands. There were a few messy tattoos there on his scratched up knuckles, and some more over the thick veins on the back of his hand.

He didn't answer and I still wasn't looking at him. It went on that way for what seemed like forever. I jumped when I felt his cool fingers under my chin, my hands reaching up instinctively, but they dropped back down to my sides when our eyes met again.

"You're good." He said cryptically.

And for a second it felt like I was in a scene from Ghost Rider. 

I pushed his hand away and shook my head at him.

"That's what you think, Tate." And I left him there as the bell rang.

 I didn't see him until lunch. I decided to sit at the table in the library again, flipping through Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur, a favorite of mine. My cheek rested against my hand as I read and re-read the same poem again and again, lips slanted and eyes heavy. My fingers traced the illustration on the page, until a cherry rolled across the table and bounced against the edge of the book. It lolled there, swaying as my eyes flickered up to find Tate there. 

He made no indication of a smile, or a frown. There wasn't a furrow in his dark brows. His face was almost blank, but there was something in his eyes. 

Content.

I glanced down at the table, finding his jacket under a paper cup full of cherries. The sleeve was only a few inches from my hand, and my fingers fanned out to clutch it, abandoning the illustration. 

The hand that had been pressed against my face dropped to quietly slide the book across the table as I pulled the jacket close. Our eye contact only broke when Tate finally looked down at the book. 

The jacket slipped out from under one limp hand as one of his brows perked. I slipped the cherries off of his jacket and wrapped it around me. 

I'd been right about it. It was big and it smelled like rain and cigarettes and all things Tate. His eyes ran over me without objection, watching me reach for a cherry and then watching even more intensely as I raised it to my lips and slipped it into my mouth.

I stood up, and left him there.