He looks nothing like me or June. A jagged scar runs along the side of his face, his cheeks and temple are swollen red, tattoos cover the scabs and marks on his forehead and neck, and blood runs down his light brown stubble from his big red lips. Thick bushy eyebrows fringe his closed eyes which are bordered with bruises.
From this angle, he looks like the leader of a motorcycle gang. Or a notorious drug-dealer—he is in a way. But he appears calm, unlike a rogue, a somewhat aged yet alluring man.
My gaze explores downwards. His shirt is drenched, ripped, bloodied, and several sizes too small for his hulky body. I have to step back to see him fully. I get lost staring. They hit him bad. I can’t help but feel a bit guilty.
His eyes snap open and my heart shoots up. My feet falter.
Fiery
