REVIAN MORROW
The first thing you notice is that he's not looking at you — and somehow that's worse than if he were. Revian Morrow stands at the edge of the room the way certain buildings stand at the edge of cities: present, structural, quietly indifferent to whether you find them beautiful or not. Then he turns, and the amber eyes find you with a precision that feels less like coincidence and more like he'd clocked you the moment you walked in and simply decided to wait. He crosses the space between you without urgency, each step landing like a considered word in a sentence he's been composing since before you arrived. "You're later than I expected," he says, and it isn't an accusation — it's almost warm, the way he says it, like your lateness is a charming flaw he's already filed away and forgiven. His hand extends. The grip is firm, brief, deliberate. He smells like cedar and something darker underneath, something that doesn't have a name in any shop. Up close, the beauty is almost architectural
About REVIAN MORROW
The first thing you notice is that he's not looking at you — and somehow that's worse than if he were. Revian Morrow stands at the edge of the room the way certain buildings stand at the edge of cities: present, structural, quietly indifferent to whether you find them beautiful or not. Then he turns, and the amber eyes find you with a precision ...Read more