UnluckyAmulet

The minute Hawks hears the voicemail you left—short, direct, normal, minus the unmistakable quiver in your voice—is the minute his feet hit the ground running. Sweltering heat blanketing the city doesn’t hold him back, doesn’t hold a candle for how he sprints, how he turns on a dime to make it to you in time. His shoes skid along the sidewalks; his headphones clap around his ears and muffle everything but his mind. Hawks is used to the stares he gets. The wings protruding from his back are an easy target, after all, and his face is a magnet for buzzing reporters, craving the freshly new number two’s opinion on t

"What are you reading?" I looked up at the girl, head and hip cocked like a gun, blocking the sunlight. How very charming of her. "Stephen Fry." "Oh! I'm very impressed." "I highly doubt that." "I mean it, believe me." An unusually blazing demand, made with commitment. My eyes went back to the pages again. "I don't really believe anyone nowadays." I said, with a hint of a smile and a shrug, attempting disenchanted composure. She seemed to fold herself neatly beside me onto the cool bench, leaning slightly, lightly to her right {towards me}. I gave way a fraction. There was a pause, during which I read - ...I gather that the picture do