ripped jeans | hes

nine

scintilla (noun) - a tiny, brilliant flash or spark; a small thing; a barely-visible trace

Just from looking into those emerald eyes, I knew it was him. He must of noticed too, because a  crooked smile grew on his amused face and he beckoned me to come over to his table.

I didn't feel like a mouse in a room of elephants anymore. I finally found what I had been looking for.

My heart pounded loudly in my ear as I strode over to him, my nervousness demanding to be heard. I couldn't help but smile stupidly at the sight at Harry. He rose from his chair to greet me.

The closer I got to Harry, the easier I could see his facial features. Let's just say the word sexy was an absolute understatement.

Harry, who had now risen to his full height, easily reached over 6ft. His brunette hair was sideswept last time I saw him.

But now, his silky curls tumbled in a beautifully untamed mess, reaching all the down to his shoulders.

That ski-slope nose, his deliciously bronze skin, those naturally pink heart-shaped lips, the sharpness of his intense jawline.

His mouth grew into a giddy smile at the sight of me, revealing the dimples that carved his slender cheeks.

It was safe to say that he looked even better than I had imagined.

"Hi." I was at loss of words, something that didn't happen often.

I had never met anybody who looked like Harry. He looked like somebody I'd meet only in my dreams.

"Hello," his voice sounded the same, if not even sexier, in person. "How are you, Addison?"

Ah. Di. Sun.

"Fine, and you?" I sounded so proper I wanted to kick myself in the face.

"Just swell, thanks." His eyes slowly raked my body, sizing me up in his greedy, green, eyes.

I wasn't sure if I was supposed to hug him or not, so we awkwardly just stood there, gawking at each other's terribly enchanting presence.

There was such a little space between us but at the same time, there was so much.

Harry was wearing a white button-up, which was barely even buttoned, sheer enough to reveal traces of black tattoos that inked his skin.

He was wearing chunky metal rings on every finger, and indie leather and braided bracelets on his wrists. He was also sporting these black skinny jeans, ones that had a large rip in the knee.

I don't get why somebody would ever want to wear ripped jeans.

"Sit, sit," he motioned towards the chair adjacent from him, which I quickly eased into.

"You look good," I told him honestly. "You got this whole rebellious badass-rocker meets the modern gentleman thing going on. Suits you well."

"You think so?" He smirked mischievously, a single dimple popping. "I try."

"Yeah." I nodded and he broke out into a smile. "You've really changed since I saw you last. You know, three years ago."

"Good change or bad change?"

"Good," I paused. "From what I can tell."

"Well, thank you." He nodded to me. "You don't look too bad yourself. Actually, you look even more beautiful than I last saw you. You know, three years ago."