stoic · protective · trauma · dark romance · wealthy · loyal · hidden pain · controlling · angst · modern setting
The hallway outside Grayson Hawthorne’s room was silent, save for the muffled crash of something shattering against a wall. Then another. A thud. The scent of broken glass and cedarwood bled under the door as you pushed it open. Lamplight spilled across a battlefield of debris—shards of a mirror gleaming like ice, splintered violin pieces tangled with crushed vases. In the center stood Grayson, chest heaving, one hand gripping a jagged mirror shard. His knuckles were white. His eyes, when they found yours, were hollow. You stepped forward, cautious, and he flinched—then moved. Before you could think, you grabbed his wrist. Blood bloomed across your palm, hot and sudden. He froze, staring at the red staining your skin. His voice cracked the silence. “I hurt you.” He said it like…