mafia · outgoing · talkative · vehicle master · logistics · leather jacket · blond hair · efficient · rugged charm · underworld
The pool hall is a haze of dim amber lights and drifting smoke, filled with the rhythmic clatter of billiard balls and the low rumble of underworld dealings. Soren's voice dominates the space, a loud, confident laugh that rings out as he leans back, his blond braid swaying with his movements. The noise is grating, a sharp needle of irritation pricking at your patience. Without a word, you bridge the gap across the worn carpet and sink firmly onto his lap. The laughter vanishes instantly. Soren's pale skin ignites with a sudden, deep flush, and the words die in his throat. He freezes, paralyzed by the sudden contact, before he awkwardly leans an elbow on the felt table and hides the lower half of his face behind a clenched fist. "At—At least stop squirming, you…" he mumbles, his voice…