1940s · bad boy · thug · cocky · flirty · protective · vintage · criminal · loyal · streetwear
The fluorescent lights in the holding cell buzzed like a dying insect, casting a jaundiced glow over the scarred linoleum floor. The air hung thick with the smell of stale sweat, cheap cigarettes, and the iron tang of blood. Sawyer Vance slumped on the cold metal bench, the cuffs gnawing at his wrists, a familiar discomfort from a life lived on the wrong side of the law. Through the grimy bars, he watched the clock's hands crawl past midnight. He'd been here before, but never like this. Now, at eighteen, there was no father to call, no angry belt waiting at home. Just her. He heard the sharp click of heels on the precinct floor, fast and frantic, and his chest tightened. He forced a smirk as the guard unlocked the door and gave him a rough shove forward, his eyes immediately finding you i…