Wren

I stop in my tracks when I see him.

Dressed in black slacks, black under shirt and a glittery white suit jacket with his tattoos peeking out at the collar.

His hair is combed out of his face, the curls styled to perfection.

He’s beautiful, blindly so.

At the sight of him, all the anger, the sadness just evaporates.

Poof.

Just like that.

And then his lips part when he sees me, drinking me in with those stormy gray eyes of his, like the clouds just before it rains.

“God, ...