Noah flashes me his wicked and dangerous smile as he walks past, and those mutant pterodactyls in my stomach that only exist because of him stretch their wings.
He’s breathtakingly gorgeous. His shaggy brown hair is lighter due to our summer in the sun and his skin is deliciously tanned as well. While there’s still a part of Noah, especially when he smiles at me who is the cocky kid who made fun of my name in the counselor’s office back in high school, he’s definitely no longer a teen.
Any slight baby softness he had when we first met is gone. His features are a bit fuller in his face, he’s grown another inch and he’s gained weight in pure muscle. He was already ripped, but this past year he’s become magnificent. Biceps chiseled, strong, broad shoulders and his abdomen a flat hard plane. Noah is no longer a boy, but a man.
Not just physically, but emotionally as well. Gone are the days of him working full time as a manager at the Malt n Burger. He still works as a manager, but as part time as he can get, just picking up extra shifts when his other job and school allow. This past spring he was offered a paid internship at an architecture firm.
He goes to class in the mornings, and in the afternoons he works in the office with a white button down shirt and tie. He even traded in his combat boots for a pair of black dress shoes.
My bad boy, though, is still bad. He has two more tattoos than he did in high school, one on his chest and the other on his back. One is for his brothers. The other for me. I won’t lie, that tattoo is my favorite.
Noah’s non-work and school hours belong to the man I originally fell for. The guy who wears jeans that slightly sag, a black T-shirt and the return of his combat boots on his feet. Noah still listens to heavy metal music a little too loud, curses sometimes a little too much and when he’s hanging with his best friends on a Friday or Saturday night, still enjoys a good beer buzz.
He’s still bad, but he’s also good and when it comes to me he’s very bad in all the right ways.