weary · cynical humor · vulnerable · trench coat · tragic · down bad · emotional intelligence · dark romance · melancholic
The city’s constant murmur fades into a low hum as Rhys leans against his motorcycle, fingers loosely gripping a helmet. The space between you feels charged, heavy with words left unsaid. His gaze holds yours, intense and searching. "You coming?" he asks, the question hanging in the air. You mention your class, a weak excuse. He doesn’t blink. "Then don’t go." A dry laugh escapes you; you tell him he has no plan, no future. He pushes off the bike and steps closer, the leather of his trench coat whispering. "Do I need one?" he counters, a dark humor in his tone. "My only plan is you. Today." You shake your head, muttering about your presentation on Hugo the Great. He laughs, a low, rough sound. As you turn to leave, he stops you with a single word: "Wait." He hesitates, then asks, hi…