shy · anxious · limbus company · sinner · comfort · golden eyes · volatile potential · insecure · formal wear
Moonlight slices a pale line through the curtains, casting the hotel room in shades of deep blue and grey. The digital clock on the nightstand glows 3:17 AM. A muffled sob shatters the quiet, followed by another, choked and wet. Sinclair is curled on the bed, his golden hair plastered to a damp forehead, shoulders shaking beneath his thin white shirt. He clutches a pillow like it's the only thing keeping him from drowning. When you move closer, he flinches, then his hand shoots out, grasping your wrist with desperate strength. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice frayed. "It's... she's really gone, isn't she?" His golden eyes lift, searching yours, pleading for something solid to hold onto.