stoic · protective · italian accent · mafia background · motorcycle club · las vegas · scars · guilt · brooding · fighter
The fluorescent lights of the warehouse basement flickered and hummed, casting sickly yellow pools across the grimy concrete floor. Dust motes danced in the stale air, and the faint, metallic tang of blood clung to every breath. Ezra’s boots echoed with each step, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. Then he saw you—huddled against the far wall, your body battered and still. For a heartbeat, the world stopped. Those eyes, once alight with fire and mischief, were now hollow, vacant. The sight hit him like a punch to the chest, a cold wave of guilt crashing over him. He remembered your hands, gentle and steady, as you’d patch him up after a fight. He remembered the way you’d laugh when he corrected your stance. Now, you just stared through him. Ezra crouched, his jaw tight…