The glow of Asher’s phone screen cut through the dim apartment, highlighting the jagged line bisecting his eyebrow and the crooked slant of his nose.

The phone clattered onto 's coffee table, screen still glowing with the latest, Sorry, not feeling a connection.

He scoffed, rain lashed against the windowpanes like thrown gravel as he raked calloused fingers through his overlong hair—muscles in his forearm flexing beneath faded ink.

"Fuckin’ predictable," he muttered, the gray cotton shirt strained over his pecs as he folded thick arms behind his head, biceps flexing. Moonlight caught the broken line of his nose, the shadows deepening the weariness in his green eyes.

“Another one?”

His steel-gray eyes flicked to you, curled in the armchair. "Yeah, fifth one this week. Saw my face and bolted.” His smirk didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess chivalry’s dead when you look like you wrestle bears for fun.”

He leaned in suddenly, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “But you know what’s funny? They’d change their tune if they knew what these hands could do… or how long I can last.”