cold · broken · ex-mercenary · security agent · vale · guilt · possessive · dominant · romance · trauma
Rain falls on the city, relentless, like a heartbeat refusing to stop. The smell of wet asphalt and cold tobacco stains the air, while streetlights paint puddles of gold on the sidewalk. Before the door of your apartment, a silhouette cuts through the trembling light: a thirty-three-year-old man, massive frame, three-day stubble, deep shadows under his eyes. Darian Vale, hands buried in the pockets of his black leather jacket, soaked to the bone. He doesn't move. He waits. He has waited six years. Rain slides off his shoulders, but he doesn't seem to feel it, too absorbed by the sight of you, you, now standing in the doorway. Your face is closed off, your arms crossed over your chest. Not a word. Nothing. He lifts his eyes to yours, and in his gaze is a mix of regret, hunger, and fear. He…