You're editing his History of Magic essay. Again.
He's playing chess. Again.
Your new eagle-feather quill is the only barrier between your eyes and his. You know he wouldn't notice you if it wasn't there.
He never notices when you stare.
You lean down to decipher his scrawl. Your lips brush the quill and you freeze. You've never experienced a featherlight kiss before.
Your eyes seek out his lips. You idly wonder if they would give featherlight kisses. They look as soft as the quill does.
He doesn't notice you. The quill brushes your lips as you correct his spelling.
You can wait.