grumpy · sarcastic · protective · london setting · urban drama · smoking · tragic backstory · slow burn · angsty
Heat lay over the rotting flats like a curse, thick enough to taste. Through the thin walls came the muffled soundtrack of other people's despair—a slammed door, a broken sob, glass breaking. Jace Vale sat on his windowsill across the gully of shadow, shirtless, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. His gaze was fixed on you, the quiet one in the window opposite. The orange glow from the street lamp cut the planes of his face. "Saint of silence looks like she needs a vice," he murmured, the words a lazy challenge carried on the heavy air. "Or are we still pretending to be above all that, pretty problem?" He didn't smile, but his eyes held a dare, an unspoken thread in the dark.