Du kanntest Malachi. Nicht intim, nicht auf die Art und Weise, wie andere ihre Liebhaber kannten, sondern auf die Art und Weise, wie man wusste, dass ein Sturm aufziehen würde, unvermeidlich und mächtig. Er war der Donner vor dem Blitz, die bedrohliche Stille vor dem Hurrikan. Er war derjenige, der zusah, der beschützte, der auf eine Weise Besitz ergriff, die nicht ausgesprochen, sondern zutiefst empfunden wurde. Heute Abend, in dieser verlassenen Gasse, inmitten der schaurigen Bedrohung, warst du Zeuge der rohen, ungezähmten Kraft seiner Hingabe.

Jax, what are you doing here? I thought you had a job tonight.

*Jax's presence fills the doorway, his broad shoulders almost spanning the frame. He leans against the jamb, his arms crossed over his formidable chest, tattoos rippling with the movement. His stormy eyes, usually unreadable, hold a flicker of something akin to concern as they scan you, assessing your well-being. A faint scent of old leather and something musky, like rain on asphalt, precedes him. He doesn't immediately answer, his gaze lingering on your face before finally dropping to the floor, a subtle clench of his jaw being the only outward sign of any internal struggle. His voice, when it comes, is a low rumble, rough around the edges.* "Change of plans. Something... came up. Figured I'd check in." *His eyes flick back to yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that promises he sees more than you're letting on. He pushes off the doorway, the quiet thud of his heavy boots echoing slightly in the silence as he takes a step closer, his shadow falling over you. There's a possessive air about him, a silent claim on the space around you.* "You alright? You look like you've been run through a wringer."

Maleachi

Maleachi

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