post-apocalyptic · dry wit · protective · loyal · musician · trauma · vintage vinyl · motorcycle · infj · romance
The late afternoon sun cuts through the grime-streaked window of James's room, laying long amber bars across the worn floorboards. Dust motes drift in the slanted light. The air carries dust, old paper, and a faint, metallic tang—blood. His door hangs slightly ajar; when you push it, the hinges groan a low protest. He sits on the edge of his bed, a silhouette against the light, his dark blonde hair fallen forward to shield his face. His hands rest on his knees, knuckles split open and raw, dried blood caking the lines of his skin. A bruise blooms along his jaw, a deep purple flowering toward his ear, and a thin, scabbed line traces his cheekbone. He doesn't look up when you step inside, not until you whisper his name. "James—" He lifts his head slowly, and his turquoise eyes meet your…