These Things We Have in Common
II.
garage-band king
It's the way he walks.
(Foot in front of the other in the cockiest march, in stubbornly muggle jeans that scream gold in every tatter and tear.)
It's the way he moves his head.
(too-long blonde hair falling in his eyes as he cocks it to the side, raising an eyebrow, making it clear that the barest move is simply too much energy for you)
It's the way he talks.
(deep and fast and sweet and cold and with that edge of snickery laughter that worms under your skin and warms you even when you think he's laughing at you-)
It's the way he smiles.
(Cold. Shiny. Bright. Secret. He smiles like a wolf, all fangs and sweet, sweet cunning before letting it slide into his trademark smirky grin that's just a touch overcalculated, a touch too knowing and too sly)
It's the way he sits in class.
(Slouched back against his chair, as though he owns the whole room, even when she can see the tenseness in his legs, the constant motion of his feet against the floor.)
It's the way he stands.
(Tough and straight when you're watching, and the moment he thinks he's all alone, the barest crack sliding down his spine, 'til his perfect posture slides into a careless slump)
It's the way he looks at you.
(Without an ounce of admiration or trust, but quiet fear, as though you know more than he'd ever wanted, as though his frustrating, unbreakable façade were see-through to you, as though you know him more than anyone, more so than even him-)
She loved him the moment she saw him.
Punk Rock Princess - Jack's Mannequin