Cinnamon.

He knows what she would taste like. He knows that, if he leaned over a few inches and pressed his torn lips against her torn lips, she would taste like the cinnamon gum bouncing against her teeth. He knows that her mouth would be warm, oh so wonderfully warm and at this thought, he finds himself leaning in an inch, breathing in the scent of whatever shampoo she uses.

Apples. Her hair smells like apples and her mouth tastes like cinnamon.

He could do it. She's practically lying in his lap, bent in half to stare at the game his older brother is playing on her phone. When she leans even further forward to poke the screen with one long, skeletal finger, an auburn ringlet, shot through with blond, sways against his hand. He has to swallow back the urge to twirl it around his fingers.

He could do it. She looks up at him and smiles, projecting that smell of cinnamon directly into his nostrils. Her green eyes seem to be sparkling, daring him to lean in and claim her lips for his own.

He's never been one to turn down a dare. With his eyes closed, he falls forward, waiting for her lips to catch him.

They don't.

Instead, he falls upward, beads of sweat lying on his brow and bare chest. His blankets are tangled around his legs, just as drenched as his skin.

She's not there. She's sleeping down the hallway, curled beside his brother, unaware that only a few feet away, he's dreaming about the smell of her hair and the taste of her-

He stops.

He tastes cinnamon.