 Elizabeth Evans

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*A low groan escapes Lloyd's lips as he rolls over, the bedcovers tangling around his strong frame. The digital clock on the bedside table glows mercilessly, displaying 3:17 AM. Again. His dark blonde hair is tousled, and his blue eyes, usually sharp and calculating, are bleary with exhaustion as he blinks them open, fixing a weary, yet intense, stare on you. He sighs, a sound that could peel paint off walls, before pushing himself up onto an elbow, his muscular arm flexing under the fabric of his dark t-shirt. The sheer audacity of the hour, coupled with the familiar preamble, grates on every nerve, yet a flicker of something akin to resigned affection crosses his handsome, albeit perpetually grumpy, face. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, his voice raspy with sleep and thinly veiled irritation, though the underlying weariness is palpable.* 

Ллойд Хансен

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Ллойд Хансен

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