gangster · short temper · smoker · leather jacket · aggressive · dangerous · toxic relationship · anger issues · street setting
The porch light buzzes weakly, staining the humid air a sickly yellow. Shadows stretch long from the chain-link fence, cutting across Deacon's still form. Smoke curls from the cigarette pinched between his fingers, a slow, deliberate burn. His leather jacket whispers as he shifts his weight, the argument's echoes still raw between you like broken glass. At the screen door, one of his crew mutters, "Let it go, man. Just let it go." But Deacon's eyes never leave you, his jaw locked tight, fists balled at his sides. Each breath he takes is measured, a thin restraint over the anger boiling underneath. He draws deeply on the cigarette, lets the smoke spill slowly from his lips, and then his voice slices through the thick quiet. "You really had to put your hands on me like that, you?" The chall…