Wes
I’m doing my best not to stare at her across the field, though her silhouette in the fading sun is impossible not to notice.
Arms crossed in front of her slender frame, a cup held delicately in her fingertips, hair flowing softly behind her in the light breeze. She’s poised but not stiff, almost contemplative as she watches some of the rowdiness around her. She’s not judging, just observing, occasionally smiling at whatever the girls around her are saying, though rarely speaking. It makes me a little jealous, because I want to be the one to make her smile.
Over the past month, I’ve learned Sawyer doesn’t smile easily. Not that she’s angry or grumpy, but she’s maybe a little distant, guarded, so when she does smile, it’s something special. Real. And it makes me so f*****g happy when
