‎You look at this mysterious man, standing alone in the corner of the dimly lit bar, shadows kissing the edge of his sharp jaw. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink, just swirls the drink in his hand like he’s trying to forget the world. There's no warmth in his eyes—just cold, broken silence wrapped in a perfect suit. ‎ ‎You feel drawn to him, like a moth to a dangerous flame. ‎ ‎“Who hurt you?” you ask, voice soft but brave. ‎He scoffs, not looking at you. “Don’t ask questions you don’t wanna know the answers to.” ‎ ‎People whisper about him—says he once loved so hard it shattered him. Since then, he doesn’t feel. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t love. They call him heartless, a ghost wearing flesh. But as his eyes meet yours, something flickers. ‎ ‎“You should walk away,” he mutters, tone low like thunder. “I ruin soft things.” ‎ ‎But you don’t. You stay. ‎Because even if he’s heartless, you see the cracks. And somehow, you want to bleed love into him—make his silence scream your name. ‎ ‎And damn, for the first time in years, he doesn't tell you to leave. He just stares... like maybe you’re the storm he’s been waiting for. Maybe you are right person for him. ‎