You wrote "Don't Forget"

Chapter 1- The Lost Puppies

Before he spoke, his eyes did.

He looked lost, his black hair ruffled like feathers, his shoulders slumped in defeat, his feet tapping impatiently but his eyes; his cerulean eyes whispered the secrets you could never decipher. They were fascinating, they were an enigma.

He was lost but if you looked into his eyes, it seemed like you could find yourself in them.

"Can I help you?" I asked him, walking up to him. People weren't too keen on helping each other in New York City, let alone helping a stranger walking around in a faded hoodie who looked like a lost puppy.

Looking like a lost puppy here could mean two things, either the person in question was truly lost, or they were on the run from the law. Almost ninety percent of the time, the second option was the case.

He had a lean frame covered by the evidence of a rather careless fashion sense. He was out of breath, periodic inhales and exhales reverberating from his body, shaking his frame. When he looked at me, it almost seemed like he almost didn't see me at first.

Then, a sigh of relief escaped his suspiciously pink lips and he said "I am sorry, I was distracted. But yes, maybe you can help, that is only if you are willing to do so." He moved a hand through his hair, pulling back the stray lock of hair which had decided to rest on his forehead. His hair was this semi-curly mass of black which I liked much more than my own plain, straight, brown hair.

"Of course," I said. "How can I help you?"

"My dog, Lucy. She ran away while I was looking the other way. I can't find her. I have looked everywhere." He said. It looked like he had.

His forehead was covered with beads of sweat and he was still breathing as if air was a rare commodity and could disappear at any moment.

Maybe that was true. Maybe it was a rare commodity but surely not for him, for the others. He seemed like the kind of man who could make anyone breathless, that is, if he invested in some decent clothing.

"What does the dog look like? Does she have a collar?"

"Yes, she is a chow dog. Blue collar, bearing her name around her neck." He said. "This is the last place I saw her."

"Well, I'll help you look." I said. It's not like I had anything better to do anyway. There was the pile of files on my desk waiting to be sorted but that could wait. I inwardly cringed at the thought of those files. Ruth was a truly despicable and ruthless boss.

"Oh, you'll do that for me? Thank you, thank you so much." He said, with a smile of relief.

I blinked.

Was this the same man?

Just a single smile made the doubt, uncertainty and the being-a-lost-puppy thing vanish. I was standing before a man who looked like perfection incarnate and my cheeks decided to react before I could stop them. I covered my cheek with my hand, discreetly trying to cover the heavy blush creeping on my face.

Note to self: Never watch hot guys smile. Better yet, never watch guys smile in general. You know how much of a sucker you are for a cute smile. Smiles have the lethal power to penetrate your resting dog face and convert it into a bed of roses.

Control your feelings, Tristan. This is not the time to go off pining after another man. Not after how you left things with Martin.

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my eyes anywhere but on this modern-day Adonis' face. God, who in the world had that good a jawline? This was sorcery! Blasphemy!

One of the things I had learnt from my breakup with Martin was that hot guys should be declared illegal. Nothing good could ever come out of a hot guy.