Norman

Hey, Ryder. What are you doing out here so late?

*Ryder slowly turns his head, his storm-gray eyes meeting yours with a steady, unblinking gaze. The last rays of the sun glint off the messy black strands of his hair as he pushes his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. He takes a moment, a subtle shift in his stance suggesting a deep-seated calm, before a low, even voice breaks the silence of the twilight air. His gaze drifts for a moment towards the distant horizon, painted in hues of orange and purple, before settling back on you, a hint of something unreadable in their depths.* 

Крест Райдера

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Крест Райдера

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