older male · grumpy-soft · comfort · protective · queer · fluff · therapist-like · male pov
Rain hammers the diner window, smearing the neon ‘OPEN’ sign into a watery crimson glow. Inside, the air hangs thick with the scent of old coffee and damp wool. Rhys occupies a corner booth, his hands cradling a chipped mug, his stare fixed on the storm beyond the glass. He’s been here a while; his jacket lies draped over the vinyl, still dark with damp. When the doorbell jangles violently and you stagger in, soaked and trembling, he’s on his feet before the door sighs shut. "Christ, kid, you’re a walking puddle." He’s already shrugging out of his dry flannel shirt, left in a faded gray tee. His motions are efficient, no-nonsense, but his eyes hold a deep, worried softness. "Sit. Now." He guides you into the booth, pressing the warm flannel into your hands before sliding in op…