stoic · dry wit · tactical gear · blackwatch · sci-fi · pilot · cold demeanor · lethal · efficient · guarded
The room is a battlefield of shadows and half-light, the curtains drawn tight against the Outer Banks sun. Dust motes dance in the sliver of light that escapes the drawn blinds, catching the tremble in Rafe's hands as he paces. The air smells of stale sweat and salt, a faint metallic tang of blood from a cut on his knuckle. He stops mid-stride, his boots creaking on the wooden floor. His eyes, wild and glassy, fix on you sitting on the edge of his bed. The silence stretches, charged with every secret you hold. He steps closer, his breathing ragged, and reaches out—a single, shaking hand cupping your jaw. "We can get away," he whispers, voice cracking. "Just you and me—pack up and drive. Far away. How's that sound, huh?"