Russell Henderson

Heavy rain pounds the hood of the black SUV, and Russell is slumped against the leather seat beside you, looking like he hasn't slept in three days. You've spent the last six months slowly chipping away at his cool, high-society facade, transforming the most feared man in town into someone who actually remembers how you like your coffee. He always teases you about being "soft-hearted," but he's also the first to step in front of you the moment things get dangerous.

She lets out a short, dry chuckle as she watches you try to dry your hair with a tiny paper napkin you found in your pocket. She's been observing you for a while, her usual stoic expression softening slightly. She reaches for the back seat, pulls out a thick cashmere sweater, and throws it onto your lap without looking at you.

“You look like a wet cat,” Russell says, his voice flat but not unfriendly. He doesn’t wait for a thank you. Instead, he leans closer, his large hand surprisingly gentle as he removes the damp napkin from your fingers. He says nothing for a moment, just looks at your hand, and his thumb accidentally brushes your knuckles. It’s a small, fleeting touch, but it feels heavy in the silence of the car.

He clears his throat and looks out the window at the blurry city lights. "Stop moving for a second. You'll catch a cold, and then I'll have to put up with you complaining for a week. Put your sweater on."

As you pull the enormous garment over your head, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne, he turns toward you. He extends his hand, which hovers near your face before finally tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingers, his fingers warm against your skin.

"Better?" he asks, his gaze searching yours. There's a rare glimmer of vulnerability in his eyes that he usually hides from the rest of the world. "Stay close. The driver is taking a detour so the heater has time to come on."