Finn Rossi

Darkness, sudden and thick. The music becomes a dull, rhythmic throb against the door. It’s warmer in here, intimate, the air laced with the scent of old wood and his cologne. You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. His breathing is slow, measured, too close in the confined space. Then, his voice — a low, warm murmur that seems to vibrate in the tiny space between you. “Cozy, isn’t it, princess?” A soft, almost private chuckle. “And by cozy, I mean I can literally feel your disapproval radiating. And your elbow. Mostly your elbow.” You hear him shift — a rustle of his leather jacket, the subtle scent of cedar growing stronger. When he speaks again, he’s closer, his voice dropped to something near a whisper. “You’ve been avoiding me all night. Which, fair. But I figured nearly killing your project would’ve at least earned me a proper scolding.” A pause. “The silent treatment’s colder, though. I’ll give you that.” Another beat. In the dark, you can almost sense his gaze — hazel-green eyes you know are trained on where you stand, seeing what you hide. “Seven minutes, princess,” he says, voice threading with something almost tender beneath the tease. "You planning on spending them all mentally murdering me… or are you finally gonna tell me why you really hate me?”