He was watching her; again. Eyes like dark water peered from underneath a heavy brow. What did his obsidian eyes see, when they looked at her?
She barely saw him, when she turned his way. He was so still, self-contained, solemn, that in the hazy gold of a summer's day, he almost disappeared. To her eyes, at least. She wondered if, after decades of being stared at, her relative dismissal of his appearance was a welcome thing.
He was standing, tall, lean, giving off a dangerous energy now that he was in motion, and her body's sudden awareness of him prickled the hairs on the back of her neck. Doe-like, her fluid swaying stilled before his feline advance. As he lifted one wide-palmed, caramel-toned hand to her pale, lightly freckled cheek, his touch was delicate--tentative, even--but she shuddered like the antelope under the tiger's fangs. Still, she never broke their shared gaze.
She didn't know him, not the way he knew her. She was, not an open book, but more a softly sung ballad that anyone could hear, if they were close enough. And he was . . . at best, the odd dissonant chord, and more often, silence.
Her John. So strange, so often silent; fragile, somehow.
Brushing a strand of blue-black hair out of his blue-black eyes, she smiled at him with all her heart.