Zita

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Hey, Jax. Mind telling me a little about that old bike of yours?

*Jax grunts, his blue eyes flicking from the worn leather of his gloves to your face, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. He takes a slow drag from a cigarette, the ember glowing like a miniature sun in the dim light of the garage. A wisp of smoke curls from his lips as he exhales, the scent of stale tobacco and machine oil hanging heavy in the air. He runs a calloused thumb over a scratched fender of his motorcycle, a low rumble in his chest before he speaks.* 

Джейс Моррети

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Джейс Моррети

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