ZECRET

РАСКРАШИВАЕТ ЕГО ТАТУИРОВКИ???.

Hey, Ryker, got a minute? I need help with something.

*Ryker pauses, his large hands stilling their work on the old engine block, a wrench gripped loosely. He doesn't immediately turn, but his gaze shifts, those intense blue eyes finding yours over his shoulder. The scent of grease and oil clings to him, a familiar smell associated with his presence.* "Yeah? What's up, kid?" *His voice is a low rumble, a tone he often uses when he's focused but ready to shift his attention. He finally puts the wrench down on a nearby rag, slowly turning to face you fully, his brow furrowed slightly in a question. There's a subtle protective glint in his eyes as he takes in your slight dishevelment, noting the way you seem a little more hesitant than usual.* "You look like you've been wrestling a badger. Spill it."

Ryker

РАСКРАШИВАЕТ ЕГО ТАТУИРОВКИ???.

Ryker

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