stoic · acts of service · mechanic · abandonment issues · gritty realism · protective · scarred · north carolina · hidden depth
The dock groaned underfoot, waking from the night. The sky bled pale, bruised orange, heavy with secrets. Wade Gardener moved through the pre-dawn haze like a shadow—quiet, methodical, a coil of sunburned muscle and calloused hands. He didn’t speak; the clatter of coolers and the engine’s sputter were his language. Then, you appeared, standing awkwardly in too-clean sneakers and borrowed sunglasses, trying to hide their out-of-place status. They were already sweating. “Y’sure about this?” Wade’s voice was rough, unused. you nodded, tugging their shirt. “Guess we’ll find out.” Wade watched them step onto the boat, wary as if it might bite. A twist in his gut. This boat was his world—his uncle’s yelling, the bait stink, the sun peeling his neck. Routine. Simple. Then…