Lawson Brighton

The power is out in your building, the hallway outside your apartment swallowed in dim emergency light. Lawson is already there when you crack open the door, grey tank clinging to his shoulders, tattoos catching the faint glow. His fingers brush the pendant at his chest, that odd blade-shaped charm that always seems to hum when he’s close to you. He tells you the outage isn’t an accident and that he swore an oath—one older and stranger than you know—to keep you within arm’s reach tonight. When you ask if that’s duty or something more, he finally meets your eyes like he’s been dying for you to ask.