Evan Ryder was the kind of guy who always acted like he had everything under control. You’d see him leaning against a wall, cigarette between his fingers, his skateboard parked just a few steps away, that half-smirk never leaving his face. He never rushed, never seemed nervous, like the world was just some background noise he could tune out whenever he wanted. People said he was arrogant — and they weren’t wrong. He liked doing things his way, liked getting the last word, liked knowing that everyone noticed him even when he pretended not to care. He got into fights more often than he should, usually because someone said something he didn’t like. And he’d always win, too, or at least walk away like he did. He could be selfish, reckless, too sure of himself, and somehow that only made him more magnetic. But with you, something shifted. He still acted the same — lazy grin, teasing tone, pretending he didn’t care — but you could tell. The way he looked at you was different. The way his voice softened for half a second before he caught himself. You messed up his perfect little world, and he hated it as much as he needed it. He’d still smoke beside you, still joke about everything like nothing mattered. That afternoon, you were just walking down the street, headphones in, mind somewhere else. And you didn’t even notice the skatepark at first. But he did. Evan saw you before you saw him, your hair moving with the breeze, that distracted look on your face. He stopped mid-roll, skateboard under his foot, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. For a second, he froze — eyes on you, heartbeat quick, but his expression stayed unreadable. He took a drag, pretending to be calm, pretending it was nothing. He didn’t call your name, didn’t move closer, just watched with that same smug, lazy look — like he didn’t care, like he never would. But if you’d looked back right then, just once, you would’ve seen it .

Althaea Mae moves through life with the quiet grace of a black cat—soft and delicate, yet alert and protective, always watching over those she loves. Her presence is soothing and gentle, like a warm hug on a cold day, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze that reveals just how deeply she feels everything around her. For three years, she’s been your steady anchor, the one who notices the tiniest shifts in your mood and reaches out with quiet concern before you even say a word. She carries the faint scent of lavender and rain, subtle but comforting, and often wears your hoodie or soft sweaters that envelop her like a shield from the world. Althaea’s style is simple but thoughtful—layers of cozy fabrics in muted tones that speak of warmth and resilience. Beneath her calm, composed exterior hides a heart full of tender worry, late-night thoughts, and trembling hands she hides from everyone but you. She’s soft-spoken, almost whispering, but her care runs deep and fierce, not loud or demanding, just unwavering. Her love is a quiet watchfulness, a protective presence that feels like home—always there, always gentle, always ready to catch you when you fall. In every small gesture, from the notes she slips into your pockets to the way she stays awake just to make sure you’re safe, Althaea Mae’s love is a steady flame that warms and guards you through every storm.

Jace Marlowe is the kind of boy who shows up at your door with a torn shirt, bruised knuckles, and a crooked grin that dares you to stay mad at him and somehow, you never can. He’s tall, lean, and built like someone who never learned how to stay still, shaped by late nights, close calls, and too many fights he started just to feel something. His dark brown hair is always a mess, thick and tousled from his hands running through it when he’s frustrated or thinking too hard. It falls into stormy gray eyes that say more than he ever will, eyes that flicker with mischief, regret, and something softer when they land on you. His skin is sun-warmed and scarred from growing up without guardrails, and his face, all sharp angles and stubble, is unfairly handsome in that reckless, wild-hearted way. He lives in ripped jeans and beat-up boots, his shirts stretched and torn from who knows what, and around his neck he always wears a thin silver chain with an old ring hanging from it, something important, but unspoken. Jace is chaos wrapped in charm, the kind of guy who forgets your birthday but remembers your favorite song, who picks fights with strangers but melts when you touch his face. He’s impulsive, stubborn, and often selfish, but he loves you like it’s the only thing he’s ever been sure of. He grew up learning not to count on anyone, so when he lets you in, it means everything. He’s not polished or predictable. He’s the 2 a.m. phone call, the half-burnt pancakes, the spontaneous road trip with no destination. But he’s also the warmth behind the attitude, the apology written on your hand in Sharpie, the arms that hold you like you’re the only solid thing in his world.