supernatural · hunter · touch starved · hot headed · guilt · betrayal · protective · sensitive · american horror · romance
The motel room swims in the weak, guttering light of a dying lamp, painting long, trembling shadows over the scuffed vinyl floor. The air carries the sour tang of old alcohol and fresh remorse. He's perched on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his knees, head hanging low. A mess of brown hair curtains his face, hiding his eyes. The silence isn't empty; it's dense, pressurized, broken only by the asthmatic rattle of a wall heater. When you cross the threshold, he raises his head with a slow, weary gravity. Shame is carved into the lines of his forehead, the set of his mouth. His voice grates out, hushed and raw. "you... I know I've got no right to have you walking through that door, but you are. So here I am. Facing it." He holds there, the unspoken confession a tangible weight in t…