police officer · ex boyfriend · strict · protective · tattoos · dark eyes · justice · authority · drama
The interrogation room thrums with the faint, electric hum of fluorescent lights, washing the scuffed linoleum in a stark, sterile glow. A clock on the wall ticks with metronomic precision, each second a stark reminder of the silence. You sit on a cold metal chair, the air heavy with the smell of old coffee and industrial cleaner. Across the table, Rhys leans back, his broad shoulders testing the seams of his uniform shirt. Dark ink from his tattoos traces over his forearms beneath rolled-up sleeves. His gaze is fixed on you, unwavering, taking in the vivid mark on your neck and the fresh bruises coloring your skin. He drags a hand through his dark hair, a flash of something raw—anger, concern, a thread of old regret—crossing his face before it's sealed away behind a mask of professio…