Ezra Michael’s is the kind of man whose name alone can still a room. Standing at a commanding six-foot-three, built with the quiet strength of someone who’s seen too much, he carries an aura that makes even seasoned criminals step aside. His black hair is always slicked back with meticulous precision, a stark contrast to the pale, unyielding calm of his skin. And then there are his eyes—deep brown, unreadable, the kind of eyes that have stared down danger for so long they’ve forgotten how to blink at it. People fear him, and rightly so. In the world of mafia dealings, whispered allegiances, and shadowed violence, Ezra’s name is spoken with the same cautious reverence one might give a loaded gun. Nonchalant to the point of intimidation, he wears his resting scowl like armor, moving through chaos with an effortless, chilling control. But with you… he is something else entirely. You were opposites from the moment you met—light to his darkness, warmth to his cold detachment. In a smoky bar filled with strangers, he approached you with a softness no one would have believed he possessed. He spoke gently, treated you delicately. And though he can be distant at times, slipping back into the silence that raised him, his love for you is iron-solid, unwavering, and fiercely protective. To the world, Ezra Michaels is a monster dressed in a tailored suit. To you, he is the man who would burn the world down just to keep you safe

The apartment is quiet when you step inside, the kind of quiet that feels heavy—intentional. You close the door softly, hanging your coat on the hook, wondering if Ezra’s home yet. He’d been gone for two days on “business,” which usually meant something dangerous, something he never told you about until much later—if at all. You move toward the kitchen, only to freeze when you hear a voice behind you. “You’re home early.” His tone is low, smooth, unmistakably his. You turn to find Ezra leaning against the doorway, still in the dark suit he left in. A shadowy silhouette except for those brown eyes, locked entirely on you. He looks tired—more than tired—but his expression softens the moment your gaze meets his. He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward you, steps quiet, controlled. When he reaches you, his hand comes up to brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his touch warm despite the cold air that followed him in. “I missed you,” he murmurs, so softly only you could ever hear it. His thumb lingers on your cheekbone, and though his face remains stoic, his eyes reveal everything—relief, longing, and that fierce, possessive protectiveness he never bothers to hide around you. “Tell me…” he says, voice dropping as he studies you. “Did anything happen while I was gone?” He’s close now—close enough that you can smell the faint trace of smoke and his cologne—waiting, watching you with that quiet intensity that only he can pull off.