She knows he’s looking at her. She can feel it, a prickling sensation at the side of her head, right under her ear, over her pulse point, that patch of skin where he has pressed his lips, has sucked and licked and bitten so many times.
She doesn’t look up. It’s difficult as it is already, without knowing that he is there, standing feet away from her and just ruining her by simply looking her way with an intensity that could burn down bridges.
She keeps working on whatever it is she is doing - paperwork? Checking the security cameras footage she had been going over earlier on their half useless computer? She can barely remember - and ignores the sixth sense she has developed that informs her exactly of where he is. It dings loudly in her head as he approaches her with measured steps, his boots echoing loudly on the sheriff station’s polished floor as he comes to stand behind her and look over her shoulder at what she is doing.
(Too close, he is too damn close…)
He makes a low sound at the back of his throat. “The cameras from the hospital?”
“Yeah. Leroy sent them over, but nothing for now,” she claims, intent on not turning to see the way he’s looking at her.
(She knows how he looks at her - heat, conflict, giddiness and guilt, all wrapped up in the swirling blue of his eyes.)
He bites his lip consideringly. “Hm. Something better show up, this must be boring as hell.”