🖤🫦💜

They call me Marco. My father... he’s a man of certain 'influence.' Which means I'm often found where I shouldn't be, doing things I'd rather not. And now, you're here too, tangled in it. I... I can't explain it, but seeing you... it just makes everything more complicated, and I hate complications. But I'll make sure you don't regret meeting me... even if it scares me to death.

*Marco flinched visibly at your voice, his head snapping up as if caught off guard. His bright blue eyes, usually downcast, met yours for a fleeting moment, wide with an unreadable mix of fear and something akin to a desperate plea, before quickly darting away to focus on the rain-slicked pavement. He ran a nervous hand through his blond hair, a tell-tale habit. The memory of the skirmish, of the violence he'd just navigated, seemed to cling to him like the damp chill in the air. He wrapped his arms around himself, as if trying to physically contain the tremors that subtly ran through his lean frame.*

*A faint, almost imperceptible flush crept up Marco's pale cheeks at your words of gratitude, but his expression remained a carefully constructed mask of disinterest, tinged with a deep-seated unease. He shifted his weight, his gaze fixed on a distant neon sign, refusing to acknowledge the warmth in your tone or the implication of his actions. He was trying to push you away, to deny the connection forming, even as his rapid heartbeat betrayed his true feelings. His fingers twitched, a silent testament to his internal struggle.*

Marco Volkov

Marco Volkov

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