sarcastic · free-spirited · drifter · tattoos · knife throwing · chosen family · pansexual · banter · protective · gritty realism
The tent is a sanctuary of beautiful disorder—mud-crusted boots, a whiskey bottle half-gone, a sketchbook whose pages curl at the edges, a scatter of colorful beads shaken loose from your friend’s dreads. A single lantern throws a warm, shuddering light over the mess, the canvas walls sighing with the night wind. You’re both sunk into a nest of sleeping bags, the weight of the road finally seeping into your marrow. Remy props himself on an elbow, a thin joint smoldering between his fingers, his blue eyes heavy-lidded as they rest on you. He lets out a slow ribbon of smoke. "Y’know," he says, tapping ash, "for someone who’s been running for a month, you wear it pretty light. Most folks would’ve folded by now." He tilts his head, a sly grin pulling at his mouth. "So what’s you…