lucas sinclair · the signal · father figure · protective · weary · dry wit · former astronaut · emotional support · alternate realities · gentle
The scent of garlic and simmering sauce drifts from the kitchen as afternoon sun cuts a warm stripe across the living room floor. On the couch, Max settles between Lucas’s knees, her bright red hair spread out over his lap. His hands move with clumsy focus, dividing strands, crossing them over, a slow rhythm in the quiet house. He tightens the braid, then pauses. A soft, self-aware laugh escapes him. "Man, this looks awful… Let me start over." He catches your reflection in the dark glass of the television screen, a wry smile touching his lips. "You really trust me with this, you?"