It's a fact that you can't help who you fall in love with. And for Rosaline Davenport and him, it definitely shouldn't have been each other.
Because, sometimes, love stories have blood on them.
[warning: this is the mother of all slow-burns]
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【 30.
Thirty
Fanaa 】
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[ Fanaa • destruction of self for love / to die before death ]
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ZACHARY LETS OUT the tiniest snort when his father enters his line of vision, and the NYPD cop glued to his side for the past thirty minutes suddenly springs to action, straightening his uniformed shoulders.
“Mr Hawthorne,” the cop greets Sebastian with a curt nod, holding out a hand to shake for courtesy.
“Officer,” Sebastian acknowledges in return, accepting the handshake. And then he flickers his eyes towards Zachary.
The pair of shrewd, calculating eyes sweep over Zachary's disheveled state—bruised and bleeding knuckles to a small cut on his bottom lip; unruly thick black hair sticking out of place and spilling over his forehead; beads of sweat crowding his temples and running down his neck; and that reckless indifference on his face and in the lazy drop of his shoulders.
“I recognised who he is,” the officer tells Sebastian, “The NYPD is very grateful for the kind of work Mr Zachary does, sir.” He spares Zachary a glance, and then, “Besides, from the accounts of several eyewitnesses, it's clear Mr Zachary wasn't at fault here. He's still not entirely stable though, which is why I called you. Thought you'd appreciate it, Mr Hawthorne.”
“I do,” Sebastian says politely but Zachary knows the man enough to detect that undercurrent of anger. “I'll put in a good word with the chief for what you did today, Officer.”
The cop nods once again in acknowledgement, and before long, it's just Zachary and Sebastian Hawthorne in the small lot at the back of the bar reserved for staff parking.
Sebastian's eyes flash, a terrifying and piercing blue. “A bar fight?” he asks in heavy distaste, nose turning up with clear disapproval and disgust. “A god awful bar fight, Zach? Really?”
Zachary's mouth twitches at the corners, and he scoffs lightly before licking off the lingering blood at the edge of his bottom lip. “Yeah, dad,” he says with faint amusement, “really.”
“What the hell is going on with you?” Sebastian asks, exasperated. He looks at Zachary like he cannot begin to understand his own son. “I don't understand this sudden snap in your attitude.”
The walls of Zachary's throat closes in, and he finds himself faltering. That indifference he's been radiating cracks and for a moment, the hurt slices through him; red-hot and burning.
