2. He's Quiet
He stood there. Simply stood, watching the scene outside without a word, a small smile playing about his lips. They were curved just-so at the corners, little dimples in his skin because of them. Plump, but fairly worn. Man’s lips, nothing like the lip-gloss and mascara of the women surrounding him.
There was no motion in his face for a long minute, allowing the world to take in the solid structure, the perfect cheekbones, the slight mark just under his eye where he’d clearly been in a fight in the past. He didn’t look bad for it though. There was little to say other than his face could have been made from stone and perfected over the years, his eyes, dark as broken bottles but shining with… mirth? Smiling slightly, they were creased at the corners. He liked to smile, that was in his face as well, the light creases that were borne only of smiling for years and years, and the divine little way his shoulders shook as he suppressed the noise that would break his cool demeanour and send him into hysterics without warning.
His body as well, displayed almost like a model in his well-fitting jumper and sexy jeans, which shifted as he moved to show off the back of a man that worked at his figure, and wouldn’t let it go for anything.
The solid shape of his muscles was visible as he moved to fold his arms, they tensed slightly as he leaned his head back and it tilted slightly to one side, as he looked straight at me. His dark eyes were mesmerising as they seemed to try and connect with mine, then, as our eyes locked, his narrowed slightly. Smiling again. Within a second, his stance had opened, and he’d moved from the doorway, where he’d been leaning and taking things in. he strode purposefully, not like a lunatic, not lumbering, not running, but taking solid, neat, strong strides, as though he was determined to get to where I stood.
He didn’t say a word as he stood in front of me, smiled and wrapped his arms around me. Smelling the smell of… ridiculous fantasticness. There was no other description. Fantasy? Perhaps it was solid, strength of him. He smelled like perfection. There was no other description for it. Perfection. Out of habit, he ran his hand through his soft, dark hair, messing it from the slight style it had, making it look just-right. He stepped around to the bar, entwining our fingers, pulling me close, and bought me a drink, without another word.