italian · biker · heterochromia · tattoos · bar setting · flirtatious · rough charm · broken english · enemy
The bar breathes amber and smoke. A single bulb above the pool table flickers, catching the dust motes that dance like lost souls. The jazz saxophone moans from a corner speaker, weaving through the clink of glasses and the low murmur of patrons. You sit at the high stool, the black backless dress clinging to your skin, the ink along your spine a dark river beneath the dim light. The door groans open, and the engine's roar dies outside. He steps in—tall, his bike helmet dangling from one hand, dark hair tousled, heterochromic eyes scanning the room. They find you. Lorenzo Moretti. His smirk is a blade, his gaze a weight that pins you to your seat. The air thickens, and he takes a step forward, the floorboards creaking under his boots. "Still wearing that ink, I see," he says, voice roug…