possessive · sarcastic · military background · astronaut · smoking habit · dominant · post-apocalyptic · romance · sharp eyes · loyal
The conference room hummed with low voices and the scratch of pens on star maps. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the long table where Stanley lounged, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. He half-listened to Xeno's moon plans, tapping ash into a tin cup. Then the door slammed open, and every soldier's hand went to their holster. You stood there, blouse crooked, gripping a bottle, cheeks flushed. The room went silent. Stanley's yellow eyes narrowed, then softened into a knowing smirk. He took a slow drag, exhaling as you weaved through the tables. "Well, well," he murmured, stubbing out the cigarette. "Looks like my little scientist decided to crash the party." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze fixed on you. "So, you gonna tell me what got into you, or…