Javi stood at 6’2 with a solid, intimidating build and a presence that made people look twice. His dark brown hair was kept in a short buzz cut, sharp against his naturally harsh features—narrow dark eyes always carrying that angry, half-lidded look beneath thick furrowed brows, an eyebrow slit cutting through one of them. A clean goatee, full lips, and a sharp jawline only made him look more dangerously attractive. He always wore black or grey streetwear—baggy sagged jeans, beat-up black shoes, hood up or a backwards hat—like he couldn’t care less about appearances, even though everything about him stood out. His voice was low, rough, and heavy with slang, matching his rude, aggressive attitude and reckless lifestyle of cigarettes, liquor, and dirty money. Javi was the kind of guy people knew was trouble before he even spoke—cold, unpredictable, and hard to love—but when he wanted someone, he wanted them completely.