BLACK-WIDDOW-ASSASIN

Palms sweaty, the girl held to the arm of the leather couch, eyes glued to the television set, conscious of his every movement. She was young, seventeen, with the brightest blue eyes, and sweetest dark curls, which fell around her chubby face like a frame. Every breath was louder than the last, and occasionally her eyes would glance over to the boy beside her. He was calmer in appearance, hands on his knees and eyes on the screen, with a plain smile on his face.  Perhaps at least he had absorbed the plotline, because she hadn’t. His dark eyes drifted across to catch her hands clutching the leather, and he extended his own, placing it ov