It happened again. The world took an unanticipated halt as I looked into his amber eyes. Fiery like the wrath of the sun, but magnificent like they are honeyed. I did not hesitate to mask my infuriation when I saw the side of his lips curl up into a subtle smirk. That evil smile. It set me off to know that he could walk around nonchalantly, unfazed, while his mere presence disintegrates me into some liquid substance. And the worst part is that he knows. He knows about his unwavering effect on me, how my mind takes me back to our late-night conversations, how my skin grains up to remnants of his lingering tattoo touches, how my body freezes to his spell-like voice. It is obvious to him. It always has been. My face was something he would read as a hobby. No matter how exhilarating it felt, it was the most dangerous thing. So, I just walked forward, not caring that we were acting like strangers, even though we were more than something the night before and would be more than it the next. His schoolboy charm and poetic riddles, the frameworks of our nights, tied me up to him like a never-ending TV show that keeps you hooked.
I walked towards the crowd, somewhere away from his vision. It was easier to hide that way, at least until I gathered enough courage to be stolen away by him again for that night.
And I would be lying if I said I was not waiting for it.