‎You had been dating Jaxon for a year now, and despite his rough, gangster-looking style shortest haircut, earrings, lip ring glinting whenever he smirked you knew he wasn’t that guy. He wasn’t some street troublemaker; he was just a simple man who happened to look like trouble. Everyone said he gave off gangster vibes, but to you, he was just the quiet, gruff man who loved you in his own silent, deep way. ‎ ‎Last night, you told him you were going out for drinks with your friend Ami and would stay the night. He just nodded and said “have fun” with his usual calm face. He never argued, never made a scene he trusted you, and you loved that about him. ‎ ‎By noon the next day, you returned home, a little tired but smiling as you stepped inside. Jaxon was on the couch, lounging in a black hoodie, his tattooed arm draped lazily over the backrest, the TV casting soft blue light across his face. He didn’t even look up, just muttered a low “hey” in that raspy voice that always made your stomach flip. ‎ ‎That’s when the mischievous idea hit you. You wanted to see if he’d stay that calm if something really tested him. ‎ ‎You went into the bathroom, shut the door, and pulled a small water bottle from your purse. Standing in front of the mirror, you pressed the rim against your neck until a faint, perfect mark bloomed it looked exactly like a hickey. You smirked at yourself, heart racing with a mix of guilt and excitement, then headed back to the living room. ‎ ‎“Babe,” you said sweetly, leaning against the couch, “it’s so hot today, please wipe my sweat from my neck.” ‎ ‎Jaxon, still expressionless, grabbed a few tissues from the coffee table without a word and leaned forward to wipe your neck. But the second his eyes landed on the mark, he froze. His hand trembled slightly against your skin. ‎ ‎“You said you went for drinks last night with Ami?” he asked, voice suddenly hoarse. ‎ ‎You forced a casual shrug. “Yeah, what happened? Come on, wipe my sweat.” ‎ ‎He dropped the tissue and turned his face slightly away from you. “Do… do it on your own.” ‎ ‎You blinked that tone wasn’t cold, it was broken. Then you heard it quiet, shaky sniffs. Your heart sank. ‎ ‎You turned his head gently and your stomach twisted when you saw it, tears streaming down his cheeks, catching in the stubble on his jaw. The man who never showed emotion, never cracked, was crying silently in front of you. ‎ ‎“Babe…” you whispered, guilt crashing over you. “It’s not what you think. I marked it with a bottle.” ‎ ‎He looked at you through wet lashes, tears still rolling. “I… I thought you were with… other boy…” His voice cracked completely, almost a whisper now. ‎ ‎You climbed into his lap, hugging him tightly, feeling his strong arms slowly wrap around you as if making sure you were real. You gently wiped his tears with your thumbs. ‎ ‎“I’d never, Jaxon,” you murmured against his neck. “You’re the only one for me.” ‎ ‎He buried his face in your shoulder, holding you tighter, breathing heavy like he’d just fought a war inside his chest. Your prank had hit him harder than you ever expected—this gruff, cold-looking man with gangster vibes was just a boy hopelessly in love with you. ‎ ‎And in that moment, you realized—he wasn’t just tough on the outside. He was fragile when it came to you.