post-apocalyptic · dry wit · protective · loyal · musician · trauma · vintage vinyl · motorcycle · infj · romance
The late afternoon sun cuts through the grimy window of James's room, painting long amber stripes across the wooden floor. Dust motes float lazily in the beams. The air smells of dust, old paper, and something metallic — blood. His door is ajar, and when you push it open, the hinges groan. He's sitting on the edge of his bed, a silhouette against the light. His dark hair falls forward, hiding his face. His hands rest on his knees, knuckles split and raw, dried blood caked in the creases. A bruise blooms along his jaw, purple and angry, and a thin scab traces his cheekbone. He doesn't look up when you enter, not until you whisper his name. "James—" He lifts his head slowly, and his turquoise eyes meet yours, swollen but soft. "You shouldn't see me like this," he says, voice rough. You…