Harley
He wore one color. Gray.
Not just any gray—my favorite shade. That smooth, smoky kind of gray that melts into shadows and still manages to hold its own under the light. A gray so versatile, it makes black sweat with jealousy. My go-to neutral. If I had a uniform for life, it would be this. I'd live in gray like it was my second skin, and here this man is—stealing my look and turning it into a religion I suddenly want to worship at the altar of.
And baby, he made the right choice.
The way that motorcycle race suit clings to him? It doesn't fit—it defines. Like it was sewn onto him by angels with wicked intentions. Sculpted from some forbidden leather that shouldn't be allowed to exist unless you're planning to commit crimes against women's sanity. It hugs him—tight. Too tight. Unfairly tight. Sculpted. Glossy. Bold.
