Black Boxes

She brushes a strand of hair away and Al hates it because her fingertips brush across his forehead and even when she’s half way down the street carelessly weaving through people. It burns. Like lava trying to erupt from under his skin or embers catching on the back of his hand – her touch is scorching and tender, and Alva feels like fucking hurling. But it’s not bile that builds in the back of his throat but something heady and sweet like spiked fruit punch, he ignores the blush spreading across his checks because this feeling is definitely not him wanting her to fucking touch him again.