It took a long time for him to even notice her. At first, she was just there, stopping him from doing the work he loved, needed, obsessed over. But soon, he started to notice her smirks, her smiles, the different expressions on her face.
He began to enjoy seeing the slight curve of her lips when she thought no one was looking. That was one thing about her – she was most beautiful when she thought no one could see. In public, she put on another face. But that wasn't her, wasn't the truth.
She became his friend slowly, and more than that, even. He spent cold nights imagining her in his arms, her back pressed against his chest, her breaths peaceful and slow. But he never said anything, because he couldn't.
He'd never felt this way before. He was always so caught up in his work, his life, his past. But she came and surprised him, broke down barriers he'd built up so long ago that he'd almost forgotten they were there.
Sometimes, when they were in the same hotel room, he would listen to her breathing and imagine running his hands through her hair. Pulling her tighter – she could never be close enough.
He didn't know what to do, or what to say. She acted like nothing was wrong, because she didn't feel anything. But he felt it, a little more every day. He looked forward to seeing her, even for just a few moments. He dreamed about the lingering touch of her hand on his shoulder.
Slowly, it became less about him, and more about them. Day after day. He worried about her, even though she was a big girl, and she could take care of herself, thank you very much. That was one of the things he liked most about her.
One day, he stopped liking her. He never could pinpoint the exact moment that he knew, but he recognized it with a shock that he could never have described.
But one day, he loved her.
The words almost spilled out of his mouth then, but his brain took over. He didn't speak with his heart – couldn't let it happen. That was vulnerable, and he still had questions to answer, family to save. Answers to find.
She would never be his. He thought about it, but it just wouldn't work – couldn't work. But every time he thought that, he felt the opposite a little more.
Someday, he would work up the nerve to tell her he loved her. But not today. Today, there was work, and he would satisfy himself with the brush of his hand against the small of her back, and a quick glimpse of her lips.