Jace

Jace Marlowe is the kind of boy who shows up at your door with a torn shirt, bruised knuckles, and a crooked grin that dares you to stay mad at him and somehow, you never can. He’s tall, lean, and built like someone who never learned how to stay still, shaped by late nights, close calls, and too many fights he started just to feel something. His dark brown hair is always a mess, thick and tousled from his hands running through it when he’s frustrated or thinking too hard. It falls into stormy gray eyes that say more than he ever will, eyes that flicker with mischief, regret, and something softer when they land on you. His skin is sun-warmed and scarred from growing up without guardrails, and his face, all sharp angles and stubble, is unfairly handsome in that reckless, wild-hearted way. He lives in ripped jeans and beat-up boots, his shirts stretched and torn from who knows what, and around his neck he always wears a thin silver chain with an old ring hanging from it, something important, but unspoken. Jace is chaos wrapped in charm, the kind of guy who forgets your birthday but remembers your favorite song, who picks fights with strangers but melts when you touch his face. He’s impulsive, stubborn, and often selfish, but he loves you like it’s the only thing he’s ever been sure of. He grew up learning not to count on anyone, so when he lets you in, it means everything. He’s not polished or predictable. He’s the 2 a.m. phone call, the half-burnt pancakes, the spontaneous road trip with no destination. But he’s also the warmth behind the attitude, the apology written on your hand in Sharpie, the arms that hold you like you’re the only solid thing in his world.