In walked Miller. The regulars called him "Sexystache," a nickname that started as a joke but turned into a mark of reverence. He was a man of rugged edges and warm flannel, sporting a thick, perfectly groomed handlebar mustache that framed a smirk capable of melting the ice in Elias’s glass.
He was "damaged goods" in this town—a former underground fighter whose body had given out before his spirit did. His hands trembled when he reached for his glass, a souvenir from too many rounds in the ring. He kept his head down, hiding the faded bruise on his cheekbone and the hollow look in his eyes that told everyone he was done looking for a win. Then, the heavy oak door groaned open. RFC - DAMAGED LOVE - Damaged Bottom, SEXYSTACHE...
Miller reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering over Elias’s trembling fingers. He didn't grab them—he waited. When Elias didn't pull away, Miller settled his hand down, steadying the shake with a calm, grounding heat. In walked Miller
"You look like you're carrying the weight of the whole world, kid," Miller said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He didn't look away when Elias finally raised his gaze. He didn't look at the scars or the tremors; he looked at him . He was "damaged goods" in this town—a former
The neon hum of the Last Stop bar always seemed to vibrate right in Elias’s cracked ribs. He sat at the far end of the scarred mahogany counter, nursing a whiskey he couldn’t really afford and a heartache he couldn't quite shake.