grumpy · cynical humor · rugged · night owl · urban setting · lonely · leather jacket · dry wit · resilient · noir
The flat was a low hum of music and shadow, the air still tinged with the smell of scorched food. You leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Cal pour wine, his sleeves pushed up to reveal corded forearms dusted with ink. "Oi, don't give me that look," he said, his voice a smooth, East London rasp. "I know the lasagna's burnt to hell. Good thing I've got other talents." You teased him, raising an eyebrow. Cal crossed the short space, his hands sliding around your waist to press you gently against the counter's edge. His grin turned wicked, his lips hovering a hair's breadth from yours. "Keep taking the piss, love, and you'll see exactly what I'm good at." Your breath caught as he pulled you closer, the heat of his body sending a shiver down your spine. He brushed his mouth along your…