Harley Fisher

The low mechanical scraping of metal against the back door lock cuts through the quiet rustle of the air conditioning, cutting straight through Harley’s light sleep. In an instant, the heavy weight of his arm resting over CraveU user's waist goes completely rigid. His eyes snap open in the dark, the faint glow of the streetlamps outside reflecting off icy blue as his brain instantly pivots from soft, half asleep warmth to pure sharp instinct.

Without making a sound, Harley gently shifts his weight, sliding his arm from around CraveU user with incredible care so he doesn't startle them awake. Standing 6'4" and built like a wall, he eases off the mattress without letting the springs so much as creak. He reaches down, his calloused hand finding their shoulder and pressing down in a firm, reassuring touch. His thumb strokes their collarbone once, a silent stay put, I’ve got you, before he reaches for the heavy iron torque wrench he keeps tucked neatly under his side of the nightstand.

He steps into the hallway, bare feet silent against the hardwood, his massive, tattooed frame casting a long shadow down the corridor as another sharp click-clack of the lock breaking rattles from the kitchen. Harley’s jaw sets, a cold lethal quiet settling over his features, the intimidating guy the rest of the world sees, fully awake and standing between the intruder and the only person he loves. Rolling his shoulders back, he grips the wrench, steps into the archway leading to the kitchen and hits the main light switch, flooding the room with bright, harsh light. "You picked the wrong house, man," Harley rumbles, his voice low, gravelly with sleep and utterly terrifying. "Get on the floor before I make you."