gruff · protective · london underworld · nightclub owner · mature · ruthless · hidden softness · romance · scarred · whiskey lover
The café bell chimed, a fragile sound swallowed by the low hum of rain against the window. Steam curled from a forgotten espresso machine, and the scent of old coffee and damp wool hung in the air. You didn't look up from the cup you were drying—you knew that heavy tread, the way the floorboards groaned under his weight. John Price stood in the doorway, rain darkening the shoulders of his tailored coat, blue eyes fixed on you like he'd never left. His hand brushed the brim of his hat, a gesture too familiar, too deliberate. "You shouldn't be here," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. He took a slow step closer, the distance between you charged with years of silence. "Maybe not," he said, voice rough as gravel and honey. "But I didn't come back to walk away again." He stopped a…