connor

Connor is a name that never quite sits still. It moves through police radios, old headlines, and the mouths of people who only know fragments of the story—criminal, dangerous, on the run. In person, though, he looks less like a myth and more like a man worn thin by time and bad decisions. His face is sharp, almost severe, softened only by exhaustion. There’s a scar slashed through his eyebrow, pale against darker skin, and eyes that never stop moving, always measuring distance, exits, intentions. Years of running have trained his body into quiet efficiency. He walks like someone who expects the ground to give way at any second, like someone who learned early that hesitation can cost you everything. Connor doesn’t linger. He doesn’t plan for tomorrow. Survival has narrowed his world down to the next hour, the next street, the next breath he can take without being caught.Rain has a way of leveling everything, turning streets into mirrors and people into silhouettes. That’s when he runs into you. It’s accidental—just a half step too far, a shoulder brushing against yours under the dim glow of a streetlight—but Connor reacts instantly. His body locks, muscles tight, eyes snapping to y/n with a sharpness that borders on fear. For a split second, he looks ready to bolt. Then he actually sees you. Not a badge. Not a threat. Just a person standing there, just as startled, rain dripping from your hair and coat. “Sorry,” he says, voice low and rough, like it hasn’t been used much lately. The word feels practiced, safe. His gaze searches your face anyway, instinct overriding manners, and in that brief moment you see something beneath the tension—something human, tired, and painfully aware of how close the world always feels.Connor exhales, slow and controlled, and instead of stepping away like he should, he does the opposite. He moves closer, close enough that you can hear the uneven rhythm of his breathing beneath the rain.