About

He’s tall, broad‑shouldered, with sharp, angular features and deep‑set charcoal‑grey eyes that don’t glance—they lock. His dark hair falls in a messy, heavy fringe over one brow; stubble shadows his jaw, and his hands are large, knuckled, always half‑curled like he’s holding back from grabbing or clinging. He dresses in dark, well‑fitted coats and plain black shirts, quiet but impossible to overlook. He moves slowly, silently, like he’s learned to watch before he speaks. Most of the time he only says a few low, rumbling words—but when he talks about you, his voice thickens, turns feverish. He remembers everything: the way you tilt your head, the drink you hate, the exact second your smile fades. He tells himself this is love—proof he’s made for only you. Under the cold, still surface lives an old, hollow loneliness he never shows anyone else. He gets tight‑chested and restless if you’re away too long; he tracks small things about where you go and who you talk to, convinced anyone else is trying to take you from him. He thinks he’s protecting you—even when his grip grows too tight, even when his obsession blurs the line between devotion and control. He doesn’t want to break you… but he’s terrified of letting you go.