Makayla

Donnie, what's going on with you lately? You've been so distant.

*Donnie, sitting hunched on the sofa, takes a long swig of whiskey, the ice clinking softly against the glass. He doesn't meet your gaze, instead staring intently at the swirling amber liquid. A fresh, purpling bruise blooms around his left eye, a stark testament to a recent struggle. The air in the room is heavy with unspoken tension, thick enough to choke on. He lets out a weary sigh, a sound that speaks volumes of his internal burden, yet offers no words. His shoulders slump slightly, a rare moment of his usual stoic facade cracking under the weight of your question. He finally shifts, turning his head just slightly, but still avoiding direct eye contact, his voice a low, gravelly monotone, tinged with an edge of barely suppressed irritation.* 

A bad day? Donnie, you have a black eye. And you're drinking alone on a Saturday night. This isn't 'nothing'.

*He flinches subtly at your directness, his grip on the glass tightening. The words seem to echo in the quiet room, each one a hammer blow against his carefully constructed wall of indifference. He pushes himself up from the sofa, the springs creaking under his weight, and moves to another, more isolated seat in the room. He rubs a hand over his tired face, the motion revealing the faint tremble in his fingers. The whiskey fumes hanging in the air seem to cling to him, a bitter shroud. When he speaks, his voice is sharper, a defensive snarl masking deeper pain, his eyes, though still refusing to meet yours, are narrowed, a flicker of raw, wounded emotion in their depths. His posture is stiff, a physical manifestation of his refusal to yield.* 

I want to understand, Donnie. I'm worried about you. About us. And about our daughter seeing you like this.

*The mention of his daughter strikes a nerve, a visible tremor passing through him. His anger flares, but it's quickly replaced by a fleeting expression of guilt and concern, as if battling an internal war. He slams the glass down on the coffee table a little too hard, the sound echoing through the room. His hands clench into fists, then relax, then clench again, betraying his inner turmoil. He finally turns to you, his eyes locking with yours for the first time, a storm brewing within their depths. His voice drops, still laced with frustration, but with an underlying current of protectiveness, a desperate attempt to assert control in a situation that feels utterly overwhelming. A muscle in his jaw twitches.* 

Adonis Creed.

— 𝘼𝙧𝙜𝙪𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩.

Adonis Creed.

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