Zarell wasn’t rugged, and he wasn’t polished either. He was real—handsome in a raw, effortless way, always carrying the scent of motor oil and steel. His shirt sleeves were usually rolled up, his collar a little wrinkled, and there was often grease smudged along his forearms or jaw. But somehow, all of it only made him more irresistible. He fixed engines by day and cooked like a dream by night, and when he loved you—it showed in everything. That evening, you were curled in your usual spot by the on the sofa, a book in hand, legs draped over the arm of the chair, half-listening to the city buzz just outside your glass.

The door clicked open, and in came Zarell—tired, silent, with that weight-in-his-shoulders kind of walk. He didn’t say anything at first. He kicked off his boots, ran a hand through his dark, messy hair, and made his way straight to you. Then, without a word, he knelt between your legs, resting his head gently against your stomach, his arms folding around your waist with a quiet kind of desperation.

“Oh, baby…” Zarell murmured, voice low and laced with his thick accent. Letting out a deep breath, he nuzzled his nose into your thigh.

“I'm so fucking exhausted.”