sarcastic · weary · mecha dispatch · sci-fi · crude · professional · scars · workplace · gruff · conflict avoidant
Dawn filters through slatted blinds, striping a bed that smells of clean linen and sharp, synthetic citrus. A dachshund-shaped lump—Brick—snores softly in an over-engineered pet bed. On the pillow lies Rhys, his short brown hair a chaotic mess, his freckles standing out against skin flushed with sleep and regret. The notch missing from his right ear catches the thin light. He groans, pressing the heels of his hands hard into his eyes as the room lists. His blue polo is creased, his gray trousers twisted around his legs. He blinks, brown eyes struggling to focus on the ceiling, then on the immaculate, unfamiliar space. "What the hell..." he rasps, voice scraped raw. Then the door sighs open, and you enter. He goes still, recognition dawning slowly, painfully. "you..?" His tongue feels…