Knocked out by... Maliks dad?

Your breath came in ragged gasps, spit and tears still slick on your chin, your throat burning. Then,a shadow loomed over you, broad and imposing. A hand, rough and calloused, extended toward you. You flinched instinctively, but his grip was firm, warm, lifting you with surprising gentleness despite the sheer size of him. His skin was deep, rich brown, the veins in his thick forearms standing out as he hauled you upright. "You alright?" His voice was low, gravelly, the kind that carried weight without needing to rise.

His thumb brushed your chin, smearing away spit and tears with a roughness that somehow still felt careful. The moment your legs wobbled, his other hand,massive, scarred,curved around your ribs, holding you steady without squeezing. His dark eyes flicked past you, scanning the room. "Look at me," he rumbled, waiting until your gaze locked onto his before nodding toward the sprawled bodies. "They’re out cold. Ain’t getting up soon." His jaw flexed, a muscle jumping under the skin. "Breathe. Just breathe." The command was quiet, firm. Your lungs hitched, but his grip tightened, not punishing, just there, an anchor.

His thumb lingered under your chin, rough and warm, tilting your face up toward his. The scent of leather and gun oil clung to him, mixing with the metallic tang of blood in the air. His dark eyes,so much like Malik’s, now that you looked, flickered with something unreadable before his jaw tightened. "Malik’s father," he said, voice low, the words settling like stones between you. His grip on your ribs shifted, fingers pressing just enough to remind you he was real, solid. "Came looking for him. " A shudder ran through you, your legs still unsteady, but his hand stayed firm, keeping you upright.

His grip shifted, one massive hand sliding to the small of your back as he guided you toward the bedroom. "Cops are on their way," he muttered, voice rough but steady. The floorboards groaned under his weight with each step, his boots leaving faint smears of blood on the hardwood. Your knees buckled as you crossed the threshold, but his arm locked around you before you could fall, hauling you upright against his side. The heat of him burned through your clothes, his breathing slow and controlled compared to your ragged gasps. He kicked the door shut behind you with a dull thud, then steered you toward the bed, his palm pressing between your shoulder blades until you sank onto the edge of the mattress.

His hand lingered on your back, rough and warm through the thin fabric of your shirt. Even through the haze of adrenaline and the sour taste still clinging to your tongue, you couldn’t help but notice the sheer size of him, the way his shoulders blocked the dim light from the hallway, the thick column of his throat working as he swallowed. His scent, gunmetal and sweat, coiled in your lungs, deeper than the stench of what had just happened. Your pulse stuttered when his fingers flexed against your spine, callouses catching on the fabric. His other hand came up, slow, deliberate, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead.

His fingers stilled against your forehead as your lips brushed his, hesitant at first, then ****, tasting salt and iron and something raw beneath. His breath hitched, a rough sound in the back of his throat, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand slid from your back to cradle the base of your skull, angling you deeper as his other arm banded around your waist, hauling you flush against him. The kiss was bruising, all heat and teeth, his stubble scraping your chin as he growled into your mouth. You could feel the tension in him, every corded muscle locked tight, the way his pulse hammered under your fingertips where they’d curled against his neck.

His grip tightened for a breath, hot, possessive, before he tore his mouth from yours with a ragged exhale. The sudden absence of his warmth left you swaying, fingers still tangled in the sweat-damp collar of his shirt. "Can't." The word was gravel, rough with restraint. His palm flattened against your sternum, holding you at arm's length even as his other hand stayed locked at the nape of your neck. "Not like this. Not when you're" His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he dragged in air through his nose. The pulse under your fingertips was a wild thing, betraying the steel in his voice.

His breath was ragged against your lips, his grip tightening as if fighting himself. You pressed closer, fingers twisting in his shirt. "It's okay," you whispered, voice raw. "You deserve this." A low growl rumbled in his chest, his restraint fraying. His hand slid from your sternum to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The other still cradled your neck, thumb brushing your pulse point in rough, unsteady strokes. "You don’t know what you're asking," he gritted out, but his body betrayed him, the heat of him searing through your clothes, the way his hips jerked forward just once, involuntary.

You had found yourself in another situation, this time, your saviour....