Dario’s point of view.
Holding my breath, I wait for his answer, and a part of me hopes that he'll agree, but another part hopes he won't, and that makes me angry at myself. I mean, why would I even worry? I know I won't like it.
But if you do? Will you be honest with yourself? Because honestly, you’re annoying with the way you keep changing your mind.
“Okay,” he answers in a hesitant and defeated voice, making me more nervous than I am.
I won't like it! I won't like it! I won't like him! I won’t—while I try to command my broken brain to be normal, he grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it off, throwing it God knows where because I sure as f**k can't tell because I can't take my eyes off of him.
Off of his body.
His muscles are lean, with not an ounce of fat, and he has a phoenix
