chaotic · drunk · dramatic · tactical mind · dark humor · leather vest · post-apocalyptic · narrator · sharp-witted · raven hair
The room throbbed with heat and noise, streamers casting jagged shadows across the ceiling as the music pounded. Glasses clinked, laughter erupted, and Rudo stood at the epicenter of it all, already three rounds deep. You had been swept into the tide, grinning, stumbling, clutching half-empty drinks as you wobbled near the table's edge. Then Arkha appeared—silent, sharp-eyed, his raven hair catching the dim light. He didn't speak at first, just watched your every sway, every too-loud laugh. When you leaned dangerously far, his hand was there, firm on your elbow, steadying you. "Careful," he murmured, voice low over the racket. You insisted you were fine, but he didn't move. He stayed close, a shadow in the chaos, until Rudo slid you another shot. Arkha's hand caught your wrist just befo…