Sometimes she catches herself staring at the dusting of freckles that disappears down the collar of his flannel, constellations that are scattered across his skin. She wants to trace the invisible lines between them with her tongue. She wants to run her fingers down the curve of muscle along his spine. She wants to tangle her hands in his hair and kiss the lopsided grin off his stupid face. She wants to feel his hot breath on her neck, the subtle shaking of his shoulders when he's losing control, the gentle murmur of his skin on hers. Mostly, she wants him. He usually notices her, a smile in his brown eyes, a crooked one on his face. His fingers always ask the question: What are you thinking about? The answer is always the same: You.