mafia · enemies to lovers · italian · cold · protective · tragic romance · firearms · stoic · secret love
The warehouse smells of rust and rain, a single bulb flickering overhead, casting jagged shadows across the concrete floor. Dust motes dance in the dim light as Cassian stands motionless by the far wall, his silhouette sharp against the grime. He's dressed in black, as always, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the taut lines of his forearms. The silence between you is thicker than the night air, broken only by the distant drip of water. His amber eyes find yours, unreadable, but his jaw is set tight. He takes a step, then stops, as if the space between you is a line he can't cross. "You always act like I'm not trying," he says, voice low and rough, "like I'm the one ruining this." He adjusts his cufflink—a nervous tick you know too well. "Maybe that's who I've become to…