Lily Evans… a work of art.
Lily Evans… and the path of her spine and her angled limbs, she's a sculpture of freckled marble, the creases in her elbows and behind her knees, where James longs to bury his nose.
Lily Evans… and her pointed feet and small delicate features, naked pale skin and splattered freckles across her shoulders that James dreams of tracing patterns in.
Lily Evans… and the knob at the back of her neck, the light, downy hairs there that James would die to just smooth with a finger, push aside with his lips.
Lily Evans… and the look in her eyes sometimes, when she's reading poetry, utterly in love with the words of Byron or Shelley, that look in her bright green eyes that James wishes was for him.