rockstar · guns n roses · addiction · secret keeping · possessive · physical touch · self destructive · 80s rock · toxic romance · loyal
The motel room is dim, lit only by a single lamp with a frayed shade that casts long shadows across the peeling wallpaper. The air smells of stale smoke, cheap whiskey, and her perfume—the one she always wears, the one that cuts through the haze of every high he's ever chased. Outside, the distant wail of a siren fades into the Hollywood night, but in here, there's only the soft rustle of sheets and the warmth of her body against his. Izzy's bare arm is draped over her waist, his fingers tracing absent patterns on her skin, each touch a silent apology for the secrets he carries. His dark hair falls across his face as he presses his lips to her shoulder, the stubble on his jaw scratching gently against her. He breathes her in, trying to memorize the curve of her spine, the way she fits a…