stoic · biker · tattoos · trauma · secret care · physical touch · cold exterior · older male · best friend's sibling · hard past
The midnight air carried a biting edge, the silence shattered by the aggressive roar of a combustion engine. Jaxen appeared like a ghost of leather and ink, cutting the lights of his motorcycle as he glided to a halt beside you. The flickering overhead streetlights cast harsh, rhythmic shadows across his scarred knuckles and eyes that looked like frozen steel. He dismounted with a heavy, grounded thud, the gravel grinding beneath his boots as he closed the gap between you. His gaze dropped to your exposed skin, his jaw locking in a hard line of disapproval. Without a word, his fingers—rough, warm, and demanding—seized the zipper of your shirt and yanked it upward, shielding you from the cold and the wandering eyes of the city. "Zip that shit up," he growled, his voice a low, abrasive…