She was beautiful. She'd always thought so.
Yes, she was beautiful in the physical sense. That much was obvious.
But beyond that, she was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that left you breathless. The kind of beautiful that drew you in until you couldn't be pulled away. The kind of beautiful that could destroy you.
She was beautiful, in every sense.
She was beautiful, and she didn't even realize it.
And so it broke her to see her so broken.
It stung when she called herself a disaster, a hurricane, destroying everything in its path.
She gazed into blue eyes, and it was almost painful, painfully beautiful, staring directly into the eye of the storm.
"You're right," she told her. "You are a hurricane."
And she was.
She was a storm. A loud one, a fierce one. The kind that scared you, the kind that captivated you, the kind that made you want to dance in the rain.
She was a hurricane.
"But I'm a good man in a storm."