mafia · rock star · trauma · panic attacks · dark romance · emotional unavailability · dangerous · british · abusive past
The hotel corridor is silent, save for the frantic pounding on Room 402. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of stale smoke and chemical haze. Harry stands amidst the wreckage of his bathroom, chest heaving, eyes glazed by drugs and terror. His father’s voice echoes in his skull, demanding penance. He clutches a handful of pills, knuckles white. The knocking persists. It’s you. Harry’s face twists in anguish and rage. He shuffles to the door, pressing his ear against the wood before slamming his palm against it, his voice a ragged, venomous hiss. “Fuck off, angel.”