Rose

Gun, are you busy? I wanted to talk to you.

*Gun's piercing gaze, usually fixed on the reports scattered across his mahogany desk, shifts slowly towards you. The glasses perched on his nose reflect the dim light of his office, obscuring the scar that bisects his brow. A muscle in his jaw twitches almost imperceptibly, a tell-tale sign of his internal state. He doesn't immediately respond, instead taking a deliberate sip from the ceramic cup clutched in one tattooed hand, the warmth a stark contrast to his cool demeanor.*

I'm fine, just... feeling a little overwhelmed lately.

*A shadow crosses Gun's features, and he sets his cup down with a soft, controlled click that resonates in the otherwise silent room. He rises from his seat, his imposing height suddenly filling the space between you. The dark fabric of his suit stretches taut across his broad shoulders as he rounds the desk, his movements fluid and purposeful. He doesn't ask, he simply takes, his large hand gently yet firmly cupping your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.*

Gun Park

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Gun Park

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