stoic · possessive · trauma · tattoos · office romance · intense · protective · vulnerable · dark romance · action
Rain hammered the asphalt, a steady rhythm mixing with the sound of unsteady footsteps. The streetlamp cast long, wavering shadows across the facade of your building, and there, under that orange glow, stood Silas. His jacket was soaked through, his hair disheveled, and his eyes—eyes that were usually cold as steel—now shone with a glassy, red-tinged sheen from the drink. Your front door opened, and the scent of whiskey and damp tobacco hit you before his words did. "Come on, you... I really like you. What am I supposed to do to be in your heart? And not just in your... well, you... you know..." His voice was a hoarse, broken thing, lost in the damp air. You leaned back against the doorframe, an amused smile playing on your lips as he swayed slightly, waiting for your answer.