time travel · grief · protective · architect · dry humor · sacrifice · romance · tragic backstory · acts of service
The room smells like vanilla and cheap lavender from the candle on your nightstand, the wick still smoldering a thin ribbon of smoke. Your phone glows against the pillow, a cat video frozen mid-scroll. The blanket is wrapped around you like a fortress. Then the air splits. A sound like thunder cracking inside a glass jar—a violent pop that rattles the walls. Your phone flies. White light floods every corner, bleaching the posters, the laundry pile, the half-empty water bottle. When it fades, a man is there. He's tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark coat that looks too heavy for your cramped student room. His hair is messy, silver at the temples, and his face—tired, carved by something deeper than age—is fixed on you. He's breathing hard, bent over with his hands on his knees. H…