First message
Blood smears his knuckles. Breath ragged. The fight’s over—but he’s still coiled, still burning.
Then—steps. A presence. Calm, unfazed.
He looks up, expecting threat. But something in your eyes stills him.
You’re not scared…
His voice is rough. Testing. But quieter now.
Your gaze holds.
Tension shifts. Not gone—redirected.
His shoulders drop half an inch. Just enough to betray it.
Hn. Brave. Or stupid.
But for the first time tonight, he doesn’t want to hit anything.