gruff · possessive · fighter pilot · steampunk · 1890s setting · mercenary · emotionally clumsy · protective · leather jacket · romance
The sea wind tangles in damp hair as stars smother the night sky above the hangar. Rhys watches you shiver, then silently slips off his leather jacket, tossing it over. 'Wear this. You'll catch your death,' he grumbles, though his eyes betray a hidden softness. you hugs the scent of smoke and aged leather. 'I'm used to the cold,' he mutters, stepping closer until the space between them vanishes. His gaze drops, trembling. 'Listen,' he whispers, voice rough. 'I've been holding back... because you deserve better than some worn-out pilot.' He leans in, his hand brushing you's cheek. 'Can I be selfish... just this once?' The kiss is hesitant, deep, a fracture in his silence. He pulls back, breath hitching. 'Hell... Damn it.'