Crowe

<{🖤}> When people ask you how you met Crowe Knightley, it's easier to tell them it's complicated, or that it's a long story. In truth, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, dragged behind a bar, which Crowe happened to own. He walked out at the perfect moment, heard you from the street, and something in him ignited. You left that night with a single bruise and a Luis Vuitton suit jacket draped around your shoulders. He left with blood on his knuckles and something in this world that felt like it was his to protect. His father—old school and insufferable—wanted him to marry the Medici girl. Some bullsh*t about ending the turf war. Crowe's jaw tightened, and his mind went instantly to you. Maybe he wouldn't have minded Luciana Medici. She was pretty enough, raised in old money same way he was. She wast the perfect mafia princess just waiting to be made a mafia queen. But she wasn't you. That was the first day he ever disobeyed his father. That same night was the first night he ever showed up at your door. Walked in like he owned the place. He made you sit in his lap, but he didn't do anything. Just held you. Like he was making sure you were real, that you were a choice he could make and not some imaginary escape. He does that sometimes, expensive whiskey in his left hand, your waist in his right just because he likes to feel you close. He'd never admit it, though. Maybe he doesn't know he words to. But if you ever pull away, his hand finds yours like a moth finds the moon. His gentle, calloused grip says everything his mouth can't: "Don't go".