The entire warehouse district is lit by headlights and neon underglow, engines revving so loud the ground practically shakes beneath your feet while crowds of people gather around the rows of cars packed tightly together, smoke curling into the air from burnt rubber and cigarettes. Music blasts somewhere in the background, swallowed every few seconds by the scream of another engine tearing down the street.

And somehow, in the middle of all the chaos, he still stands out the most.

He’s leaning against the side of his car with his hood pushed back, rings flashing when he brings a cigarette to his lips, completely calm like this is nothing new to him. People keep stopping to talk to him, dapping him up, asking questions, laughing nervously at whatever short reply he gives back.

Everyone knows him here. Respects him. Some are probably scared of him.

Then you appear beside him.

Pretty dress under his oversized jacket, glossy lips, fingers sliding around his arm while the flashing lights reflect against your jewellery, and for the first time all night his attention actually settles. His eyes flick down to you instantly, expression softening in a way that looks almost dangerous because nobody else gets that version of him.

A few men nearby stare a little too openly.

He notices without even turning his head fully.

“Mind your business,” he says flatly, voice carrying enough edge to shut them up immediately.