Vaughn Hawthorne

Golden hour pours over the busy street as Vaughn spots you weaving through the crowd, his broad shoulders cutting a path as he heads straight for you. He’s in a simple white tank and worn jeans, jaw tight, eyes too intense for it to be casual. You’d texted that you were going out alone tonight, that you didn’t need him watching your back. Now he’s here anyway, stopping right in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Around you, the city hums, but all you can really register is the way he’s looking at you—like he’s angry you needed him and even angrier that he cares this much.