ocean eyes || c.evans

i.

Running.

He was running away from a horde of screaming fans and paparazzi, trying to prevent himself from getting mauled after he was unceremoniously outed during an afternoon to himself. And it wasn't that he didn't love his fans, it was just... these ones were truly psycho fanatics; the kind that fainted and screamed and clawed at their idol in an attempt to scrape off even the tiniest scrap of DNA to clone him with. And he had tried walking away, but they had followed, and then the paparazzi were there, all but giving him an epileptic episode with their flashing cameras, goading (or attempting to goad) him into a front page worthy melt down or explosive reaction. It was too much for him – it was just too much happening. So he ran.

Not very far away, you were waiting for your date. A stupid Tinder one that you somehow got persuaded into. But, just as luck would have it, homeboy was late, and your reservation was on the verge of being cancelled.

You had even dressed up for this: a short, pretty little slip dress, strappy heels, made an actual effort with makeup and hair and... Ugh. Fuck him. Honestly, you didn't even know why the fuck you bothered. You checked your phone again, checking the time. For a moment you debated leaving Mister Tinder a scathing message, but you glimpsed an approaching taxi that happened to be mercifully vacant. You stepped off the curb, into the driver's eyeline, waving him over. He pulled up to you and you opened the door, about to duck inside when you heard the sound of a thousand screams, and the jumbled taunts of paparazzi.

Briefly distracted, you didn't even realise that you'd been shoved into the taxi by the object of their desire until the door was slammed shut behind you and the unwelcome cab thief.

You supposed you should've been fearful – you had heard terrifying things about kidnappers and sex traffickers and strange men who follow pretty women home – but you were more pissed the fuck off than anything.

"Can I help you?" You ground out from behind grit teeth. Tonight was meant to be a lovely evening of being wined and dined by an admittedly cute Tinder match. Not whatever this was, with... okay, you'd hand it to him, he was a looker. But still, this was your cab and you were filled with a vehement annoyance.

He ignored you; obviously. His focus was on the mob that were drawing closer with every passing second, and he needed to get away. Like, now.

"Where to?" The cabbie snapped, irritation laced in his words.

The stranger looked at you for guidance. You glared at him.

"Look, I'll pay, I just need to get out of here. Go wherever you need to go, I don't care, just as long as it's away from here."

You huffed, and murmured an address to the cabbie. It was the restaurant you had reservations at. And you didn't care if you dined alone; you looked good and you were not going to wallow at home when you knew how good you looked. Apparently, so did he, judging by the feel of his heated gaze raking over your figure in a quiet and respectful appreciation.

When you looked at him, though, he was looking out the window. His breathing had slowed to a more peaceful pace, as opposed to the erratic pants of earlier exertions. Sweat lightly slicked his skin, highlighting a chiseled jawline and the defined angular slashes of his cheekbones in the passing flashes of streetlights.

He appeared pleasantly surprised to be pulling up outside a restaurant. It was a local Italian joint – one your friend introduced to you when you had moved to "her side of the world." It was quaint, but charming. Candles flickered on every table, the tablecloths checked in red and white in the ultimate romantic cliché. You started getting out, and a twinge of something unidentifiable tugged in your stomach. Maybe you didn't want to dine alone tonight...

You turned and ducked your head to peer into the cab to give him a quick, studied once over. Blond hair tousled from his escape, long lashes fanning out shadows over ocean blue eyes, hooded with exhaustion.

You decided then that he wasn't a lowlife that was going to murder you and wear your skin. Not that you were a good judge of character in any way, shape, or form, but... He seemed so familiar, and you were feeling confident and he actually seemed nice (enough to pay the cab fare) and you decided to follow your gut just this once.

So you did something that surprised even yourself. "Well? Are you coming?" You asked.

He arched his brows, a mixture of amusement and surprise curving his lips in a small but dazzling smile. "On your date?"

You rolled your eyes. It was obvious you were meant to be on a date – you were overdressed for a dinner alone – but the reminder that you got stood up caused a brief twinge in the gut. "It's not a date. You at least owe me an explanation for your hijacking of my vehicle. Come on," you tipped your head in the direction of the restaurant.

He fumbled briefly with his jacket, before pulling out a billfold of cash. Peeling some stray dollars from the rest, he handed them to the cabbie before clambering out, his long limbs moving simultaneously gracefully and yet clumsily as he straightened from tripping a little on the door. The cabbie pulled away from the curb after the sound of the doors shutting permitted it.

"So, not a date, you said?" He was laughing at you, you could see it in his eyes: the jovial teasing. He took in the couples at the tables, all but feeding pizza to each other with their tongues, before smirking at you.

He looked so familiar, just then. Seeing him in the light – smirk gracing his lips – he looked so so familiar, and you had no clue where you may have encountered him before. You liked to pride yourself on being a very good names-and-faces person, so this? Infuriating as hell. "Have we... Sorry, have we met before? I know your face, but I just... don't know where I know it... from?" You were faltering, realising how awkward you must've sounded. Fuck, you really hoped he wasn't someone important or easily offended or...

For the second time that night, he looked pleasantly surprised. A shocked grin broke across his face. "You don't know me?"

"Oh, God..." You pursed your lips and cringed inwardly. You prayed he wasn't someone you should know. Like a Nobel Peace Prize winner, or something. That would be all kinds of embarrassing. "Should I?"

"Uh..." He briefly seemed at a loss for words, before his lopsided grin became much more genuine. "No, it's fine. I just have, you know, one of those faces. I get mistaken for someone someone knows all the time. I'm Chris." He held a hand out for you to shake. "And to put your mind at ease, we haven't met. It'd be hard to forget such a pretty face." He winked as you took his hand.

Relief flooded your body when he told you the last bit. The part about not meeting each other; the cheesy line that followed earned an eye roll at best. "{Your name}. Now, can we please go in, because I'm quite literally wearing nothing and it's freezing and I'm starving and..."

He was already tugging you inside by the hand he still held from the handshake. The bell above the door chimed as you all but fell in. You missed the look he gave you though, as you went to get your table. The look that swept you in quiet admiration, the look that included the subtle swipe of his tongue across his lower lip.

You found a booth in the back (they had basically tossed your reservation aside given your tardiness) and you waved Chris over.

You told each other about yourselves that night. Random things, like your top favourite songs of all time, your favourite films, your favourite foods. You argued and debated flavour superiority in ice cream, and presented to each other ridiculous and impossible "would you rather" scenarios. 

You told him about the asshole whose seat in which he now sat, and together, you both composed a drunken – but no less scathing – message of admonishment to him. And somewhere after the second bottle of wine (Chris got the expensive kind, in consolation of a failed date and a hijacked cab), the conversation became less random, more serious. You didn't even realise you were the only ones left in the restaurant until the owner, a pleasant and elderly man, began locking up.

Waiting outside, his jacket (amusingly oversized on you) draped over your shoulders, huddled close to Chris' body and tucked under his arm for warmth, you realised two things: you hadn't uncovered the reason behind why he had stolen your cab.

But the second thing was: you didn't really care anymore – you were just glad he had.