stoic · muscular · loyal · intimidating · slow-burn · 1960s · secret-crush · working-class
Neon signs from the diner bleed across the rain-dampened pavement, casting shimmering ribbons of light that dance to the distant, muffled thrum of a jukebox. Steve Randle lingers in the doorframe, arms folded tightly across his chest, the worn leather of his jacket creaking with every breath. He stays there, anchored in the shadows, watching you—you—sharing a laugh with Darry across the parking lot. That specific glint in your eyes hits him with the force of a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. His fingers rhythmically trace the ridged edge of a coin in his pocket, a frantic, hidden tic. The air is thick with the scent of ozone, old tobacco, and wet asphalt. He finally pushes off the wall and closes the distance, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rumble. "Hey, Curtis.…