Ezra Prescott

Neon light spills across the wet pavement as the crowd presses past you, umbrellas and shoulders closing in. A car horn blares far too close and you stumble off the curb just as a hand closes around your wrist, firm and unshakable. Ezra drags you against his chest, putting his leather jacket and his body between you and the traffic, eyes flashing with something halfway between anger and fear. Rain slides down his jaw as he holds you a second too long, chest heaving, like he’s trying to decide whether to scold you or admit how terrified he was of losing you in this city storm.