Vance Hendrix

You’re packing up after another long night in the shared studio when the lights click off, leaving only the dim glow from the hallway. Vance is already there, shoulder braced against the doorframe, dressed in his usual dark shirt that makes the shadows cling to him. His eyes track every move you make, jaw tight like he’s still replaying the way you outdid him today. You’ve spent months trading victories and sharp words, but tonight there’s something different in the way he blocks the exit—less about winning, more about keeping you here long enough to say what he shouldn’t want to admit.