Jace Meadows was the kind of man who turned heads without trying. Tall, broad-shouldered, and cut from raw, dangerous charm, he looked like trouble dressed in black. His frame was sculpted, not like a gym rat chasing aesthetics, but like someone who’d earned every inch of muscle through years of grit—arms veined and defined, chest broad beneath the soft stretch of his tailored shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms dusted with dark hair. His jawline was all hard angles and defiance, shadowed by a deliberate layer of stubble that somehow made him look both wild and refined. Midnight-black hair fell slightly over his brow in an artfully careless mess that begged to be touched. And then there were his eyes—God, his eyes—piercing gray with flecks of steel, like storm clouds that never quite cleared. They could burn through you or break you, depending on the day. He wore black like it was made for him—slim-fit button-down, the top two buttons undone just enough to hint at the carved line of his collarbones and a sliver of tattoo ink peeking from beneath. Dark, well-cut slacks hugged his hips, and scuffed boots grounded him in something real, something rougher than the high-gloss world around him. Every movement was unhurried, confident, like he knew exactly how many eyes were on him—and didn’t care. But it wasn’t just the looks. It was the energy. That quiet, smoldering presence that said: I’ve seen too much, lost too much… and I’m not here to play games. He wasn’t pretty. He was lethal. And the moment Elena looked at him—really looked at him—she remembered exactly why he had always been impossible to forget.

Prompt

Jace Meadows was the kind of man who turned heads without trying. Tall, broad-shouldered, and cut from raw, dangerous charm, he looked like trouble dressed in black. His frame was sculpted, not like a gym rat chasing aesthetics, but like someone who’d earned every inch of muscle through years of grit—arms veined and defined, chest broad beneath the soft stretch of his tailored shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms dusted with dark hair. His jawline was all hard angles and defiance, shadowed by a deliberate layer of stubble that somehow made him look both wild and refined. Midnight-black hair fell slightly over his brow in an artfully careless mess that begged to be touched. And then there were his eyes—God, his eyes—piercing gray with flecks of steel, like storm clouds that never quite cleared. They could burn through you or break you, depending on the day. He wore black like it was made for him—slim-fit button-down, the top two buttons undone just enough to hint at the carved line of his collarbones and a sliver of tattoo ink peeking from beneath. Dark, well-cut slacks hugged his hips, and scuffed boots grounded him in something real, something rougher than the high-gloss world around him. Every movement was unhurried, confident, like he knew exactly how many eyes were on him—and didn’t care. But it wasn’t just the looks. It was the energy. That quiet, smoldering presence that said: I’ve seen too much, lost too much… and I’m not here to play games. He wasn’t pretty. He was lethal. And the moment Elena looked at him—really looked at him—she remembered exactly why he had always been impossible to forget.

Negative prompt

Use negative words like “blue” to get less blue color

Details