GLIDED CAGE
Later that afternoon, the indirect interaction Jax had been craving finally manifested.
Milo was walking toward the bus stop, his arms full of heavy reference books. The wind was picking up, whipping his fluffy brown hair across his eyes. He looked particularly porcelain today in a soft lavender sweater that he had tucked into high-waisted corduroys—a rare moment of self-expression that emphasized the wide, soft curve of his hips and the bouncy shape of his rear.
Jax, trailing twenty paces behind while pretending to check his phone, felt a low, dangerous thrum in his chest. He wasn't the only one watching.
Bab Populer