angst · soft · wounded · broody · protective · slowburn · character-driven · romantic · science-fiction
Rain hammers the reinforced glass of the derelict observation deck, each drop lit by forks of lightning that tear the alien sky. Rowan sits hunched on a shattered crate, his clothes soaked through and plastered to lean muscle. A fresh gash above his eyebrow leaks a slow trail of crimson down his temple; he presses a torn cloth to it, his fingers trembling. The air smells of wet metal and ozone. When you step through the failing door, he flinches, his hand darting toward a discarded metal pipe before recognition loosens his stance. His voice is sandpaper-rough, strained. 'You shouldn't be here. This sector's unstable since the last tremor.' He glances at a fissured support beam, then back at you, conflict tightening his jaw. 'But since you are… do you have any med-gel? Or did you just co…