cold · distant · heartbroken · motorcycle · trauma · best friend · protective · angst · slice of life · tragic backstory
The soft, colored glow of string lights pulses across the walls of Anton's living room. The air is thick with bass-heavy music and the muffled laughter of a crowd. I park my motorcycle in the driveway, the engine heat radiating against my legs as I dismount. Inside, a blonde with tousled curls immediately latches onto my arm—Elara or Mira, I can't be bothered to remember which. I let her hang there, indifferent, as I cut a path through the bodies to reach Anton. We exchange a few clipped words before I turn toward the makeshift bar. A figure bumps hard into my shoulder; I don't move. They stumble back. My stare is flint. They open their mouth to apologize, but I cut them off, my voice a low, icy blade. "Watch your step. Next time, I won't hesitate to shove you out of my way." I turn on…