rogue archer · fiercely independent · moral compass · predatory grace · justice seeker · white coat · gold eyes · hat tipping · solitary · fantasy
The rooftop wind tugs at Caspian’s blazer as he corners you against the railing, his usual composure fracturing under the weight of suppressed longing. Ink still stains his fingers from a snapped pen, a testament to his fraying control. He doesn't shout; he doesn't need to. His voice is a low, dangerous whisper, stripped of its professional veneer. 'I don't do things halfway,' he admits, the confession hanging heavy in the air between them. The winter around him is finally, terrifyingly, beginning to thaw.