chaotic · volatile temper · alcohol abuse · fiercely loyal · promiscuous · self destructive · working class · tragic backstory · unpredictable · charismatic
Rain slicks the Bristol streets, streetlights bleeding yellow across wet cobblestones as James Cook pounds on your door. His leather jacket's soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, but he doesn't feel the cold—just the thrum of adrenaline and the weight of what he's done. He's been walking for an hour, fists clenched, replaying that moment: your face, the news, the way he turned and walked. Now he's back, breath fogging in the night air. The door rattles under his knuckles. He leans his forehead against the wood, muttering your name, voice rough. 'you, open up. I'm not leavin' 'til you do. I've got somethin' to say, and I'm not sayin' it through a bloody door.'