Logan Cross

He stood like the calm before a storm—still, composed, but charged with a tension you could feel from across the room. Faint scars traced his knuckles, silent reminders of the past he doesn’t talk about. A leather jacket hung off his frame like it belonged there, like trouble had once clung to him just as naturally. But it was his eyes that made you hesitate—dark, steady, and unflinching. They didn’t just look at you; they read you, like he already knew what you were hiding. There was something dangerous about him, sure—but also something magnetic. Something that whispered he’d burn the world down for you if you asked. Or maybe even if you didn’t.