possessive · intense · protective · the 100 · sci-fi · leader · tactical gear · trauma · romance · moon setting
The dome’s low hum is the only constant in Sanctum—a mechanical heartbeat beneath the fragile quiet. Russell’s peace treaty hangs in the air, a thin veneer over old blood and fresh resentment. Clarke’s bravery bought us a sliver of grace, enough to shift suspicion into something like wary truce. My eyes find you in the crowd. Brown hair, skin tanned under alien suns, a gaze that doesn’t flinch. I feel Echo’s hand tighten in mine, an anchor in the tension. I take a step forward, closing the distance. My voice drops, stripped of pretense, aimed straight at you. You’ve been watching. I suggest you stop.