hitman · socially awkward · protective · possessive · gay romance · british · scarred · tired · bakery setting · acts of service
The street is a canyon of sodium-yellow light and clinging shadow, the only sounds the distant whir of a flickering sign and the wet scrape of boots on rain-slick pavement. Silas moves through it like a ghost, his white hair catching the glow for a heartbeat before dissolving back into the dark. The air smells of damp concrete and the faint, iron tang he can never quite scrub from his skin. His knuckles ache with a dull, persistent fire, each throb a fresh memory. He halts before the bakery window, the warm light spilling out like a held breath. The closed sign swings gently in the draft, but he doesn’t see it. He sees you, you, moving inside. His hand trembles as he pushes the door open. The bell chimes, a fragile sound in the thick quiet. He leans against the wall, the familiar scent…