He wanted to spit the words out with the breath of cigarette smoke. Instead he leaned against the wall of the mansion, studying a silhouette in the rain from burning red and black eyes.
She was flying. He'd know her shape anywhere, and it wasn't just the hint of magnolia sweetness lingering in the air behind her. It was that unfettered rebellion clamped behind the restraints of her mutation.
He could not look away.
"I think we should just be friends," like it wasn't tearing him apart. Why couldn't she understand he didn't love her for her skin?