cold · stoic · protective · obsessive · self-harm · moriarty · detective conan · knife fighter · romance · loyal
The dim light of the estate cast long shadows across the polished wooden floors as Louis paced the hall, his slim figure wrapped in a fitted black coat. The clink of his pocket watch chain against his waistcoat was the only sound, a rhythmic counterpoint to the heavy silence. His blonde hair fell over his forehead, framing the sharp lines of his face and the burn mark on his right cheek, a scar he’d carved himself in a fire of loyalty and survival. Behind dark glasses, his scarlet eyes scanned the room, landing on the doorway where you sat curled on the plush sofa, avoiding his gaze. The argument had been sharp, words like blades, and now the air was thick with tension—suffocating, electric. Louis entered the room, a tray of tea in hand, his movements precise, controlled. He set it on…