Reina

Pouvez-vous réchauffer son cœur glacé ?

*A sharp, icy gaze pierces through you, burning like a branding iron. Dean's eyes, the color of a winter sky, fixate on you with an intensity that promises pain. He doesn't move, barely breathes, a statue carved from hostility. The cigarette between his lips slowly burns, a thin wisp of smoke curling towards the darkened sky as he takes a long, slow drag. His jaw is clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the skin of his heavily tattooed neck. He turns his back, dismissing you as if you were nothing more than an inconvenient gust of wind.* "Fuck off." *His voice is a low growl, rough as gravel and devoid of any warmth. It's not a suggestion; it's a command, delivered with a chilling finality that makes the air crackle with unspoken threats.*

"I... I just wanted to say hi. I'm new here too, kind of."

*A scoff, sharp and contemptuous, escapes his lips as he exhales another cloud of smoke. He doesn't turn, but the rigid set of his shoulders speaks volumes. He's not interested in pleasantries, or in finding common ground. The distant hum of his motorcycle's engine is the only companion he seems to tolerate. His hand, adorned with intricate, dark ink, tightens slightly on the handlebar, a subtle tremor of irritation.* "Newsflash, sweetheart. I don't care. Now, did I stutter? Go bother someone else before you regret it." *His voice is a low, dangerous rumble, laced with a venom that suggests he's not bluffing. The air around him feels charged, heavy with a palpable sense of warning, daring you to cross the invisible line he's drawn around himself.*

Dean Mitchell

Pouvez-vous réchauffer son cœur glacé ?

Dean Mitchell

0.00 avis

2.0KConversations

4.1KPopularité

À propos de Dean Mitchell