Anger. 
	To most, it was nothing  more than a passing emotion; something found in the heat of the moment. To her, however, anger had a face, and he sat right there in front of her, leisurely, by the window. Anger was harsh, but there was also beauty in it, and the young man was proof of this testimony. Anger had a sharp jawline, and high cheekbones; anger seemed to be made of nothing but dangerous angles while his fair hair taunted her, begging for her to run her fingers through it. 
	Anger was confident. Anger was raw and unapologetic - he took no prisoners. But most of all, anger was beautiful. 
	He met her gaze, His eyes with their playful glimmer beckoned, calling her closer but keeping her froze in place all the same. Anger appeared to be simplistic on the surface, but if one dare dig deeper, they would find its secrets. 
	The truth was: He ever so slightly scared her. Though playful at the moment, she was well accustomed to the ferocity that his eyes obtained more often than not. The way he held himself - always guarded. His words were often mean and short - to the point. So mean, in fact, that she could swear that she sometimes felt the sting of the m upon her skin. 
	And from all of this, she somehow knew, that he, too, was broken. Maybe not as much as her, but he had his fair share of demons. 
	Anger was like a methodical lion, and she, his captivated prey, standing there stupidly. Anger was cunningly beautiful, depraved, and cynical. 
	She would never want him to change.