29 - DEVLIN

My nose burns with the smell of rotten fruit. The acidity of it burns my lungs with every breath I don’t want to take as I look at Brixton. 

He’s looking past me to where Trent is standing, and to anyone who doesn’t know him, he looks calm and collected, but I see the storm behind his icy blues. 

I see the way his shoulders are flexed, holding more tension than they normally do, and how his mouth is open slightly, allowing room for if his canines drop, without revealing that to the room. I see the way his eyes are shifting shades of blue so subtle that it’s easy to miss. The storm in them is raging, begging to be unleashed as his hand flexes over an area I know he strapped a knife to earlier. 

I know I shouldn’t be looking at him, watching to see what he’ll do, as his words from this week are on a