Vibrant blue eyes meet mine, full of mischief, and I allow myself a moment to imagine what it would feel like to look into eyes like that every day. The thought startles me and the moment comes to a quick end when he clears his throat and his teeth sink into his full bottom lip in, what I can only assume is, an attempt to fight the smile quirking his full lips. 
A fight he is losing.
A wave of fresh embarrassment washes over me and I duck my head in an effort to avoid his gaze.
“Don’t you just hate it when they don’t have your favorite flavor?” I force a smile and turn to move away, desperate to leave this moment of disappointment and mortification behind, when the deep timbre of his voice stops me.
“Trust me, nobody feels more passionately about ice cream than I do.” 
I glance up and take in his easy expression. He’s running a hand through his slightly unkempt, dark blond hair, a grin stretching across his face. I notice that his hair isn’t artfully tousled. You know the kind of messy that guys spend far too long on, in an effort to make it look effortless? Instead, it looks as though he spends his days running his hand through it, with zero care for his appearance. I try not to question why that endears this stranger to me.
“If they don’t have my Cherry Garcia, I will burn this place to the ground.” He leans toward me conspiratorially. “Can I trust you to have my back if shit goes down?” 
My answering laugh is loud and unexpected. Somehow this guy has managed to put me at ease and soothe my awkwardness. 
“Of course. Who better to have by your side at a time like that than a fellow ice cream annihilator, stranger or not,” I reply, my face the picture of earnestness.
“See, now, you get it!” He shakes his head gravely. “Not many people do.”