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𓆉𓆉𓆉
The guy hovering before the cash register is cute.
He runs a hand through his honey streaked hair, chin flitting ever so slightly as he appears to be playing with his lip piercing.
The man is around your age, with a jawline sharper than your freaking grades. Forcing your eyes away, you mentally wack yourself for gaping at the man like one of those lovesick school girls.
Get a damn grip, Y/N.
He's out of your freaking league.
Besides—considering how you look at the moment—you have absolutely no interest in making a move. So ignoring him, you flounder uncomfortably in line, feeling the presence of a bulky figure shifting impatiently behind.
Blink, and his broad shoulders bump your sides roughly, making your petite figure stumble to the side.
The hell?
You snap your gaze to the man in front, feeling a surge of anger seep through your veins once he shamelessly starts to recite his order. His voice is cold as a furnace, edging with a certain tone of superiority that irks you.
But you have to admit, his back profile is damn distracting.
His ebony hair reflects a mellow hint from the gold lights of the shop, making him seem like he's under a spotlight. Well, actually, he kind of is.
A ginger-haired girl beside you is drooling over him, her strawberry smoothie dripping on the floors between her small hands. Somehow, all the attention this arrogant jerk is receiving makes your blood boil.
You have the urge to punch him, but knowing he's muscular with the way his muscles stretched to bursting capacity under his matte black jacket, you don't dare to mess with him. Hell, he's double the size of you. Maybe even more. And you aren't even that short.
Still, the impulse to trip him is pretty tempting. Your eyes slip down to his coal-black timberlands tied with a bow that loosely dangles down the sides.
But when he turns after ordering, the idea slips away from your system almost immediately.
Because he's just so freaking... big.
The guy's rapid strides make it nearly impossible for you to sneak even a fleeting glance at his face. With a crooked neck, your eyes followed the man's figure approaching a seat by several (hot) men in suits.
"Hey cutie," comes a voice, making you snap your attention to the front, stunned at the cashier's choice of words.
And woah... he's even good looking up close.
Before you can reply, your eyes catch a fancy tattoo playing over the porcelain skin of his neck. It's a little hummingbird, you concluded, curiosity flaring with the motive of the tattoo.
