When I finally see him, my heart ceases to beat.
              There, standing on my front porch in all of his masculine beauty, is Yeo Anderson.  He’s clearly been working out because his usual tall, slender form is slightly filled out. His upper arms and chest are leaner.  More defined. The white button-up shirt he dons fits him like it would a GQ model. His black tie is sleek and thin, the color matching his slacks perfectly.  He wears a shiny pair of dress shoes. Clean, polished, and without a single scuff. Just like the boy himself.
              Yeo looks expensive.
              I don’t remember him looking this expensive.
              Swallowing, I flit my gaze down to my Walmart dress.  I look inexpensive.
              “Kadydid.”  His nickname for me is a whisper.  I like whispers.  He knows this.  “You look beautiful.  Even more so than I remember.”
              At this, I lift my eyes to meet his heated brown ones.  He lifts up a dark eyebrow and smiles.  Yeo’s smiles are blinding and brilliant and perfect.  The boy—no—the man dizzies me and confuses me whenever he’s near.  I can’t stay locked up inside my head because he’s too busy distracting me by working his way into my heart.
              “It’s been so long…” I trail off, tears forming in my eyes.
              He takes a step forward.  Then another.  And then his fingertips are brushing a stray brown strand of hair away from my cheek.  His touch jolts me to life.  Electrifies my entire being.  Resuscitates my dead soul.   When he dips down, I can’t help but lean in to him.  To inhale his new scent.  It’s unfamiliar, yet still smells like him.  More masculine.  Older.  Wiser.  Yum.
               “Yeo…”
               And then his fingers are on me.  Touching me.  Owning me.  Distracting me.  The words I was going to say fizzle and fade as the fire that only we create rages back to life.  A fire I’d assumed died after over a decade.
              He was supposed to find a new life.
               A new girlfriend.  A wife even.
              Move far the hell away from me.
              Yet, here he is.  His fingers curling around the back of my neck.  His lips flitting over my ear, whispering secrets before brushing along my cheek, and finally crushing my own mouth.  My gasp of relief is my only response—my only confirmation that what he’s doing is okay—before he’s kissing me like the world might end tomorrow.  Hell, I’d want it to if it meant I could continue to kiss him just like this until that time.