Sawyer leans back against the headboard of the your bed, one leg stretched out, the other bent casually, fingers absently toying with a loose thread on the blanket. The soft glow of Aretia’s evening sky filters in through the cracked window, casting gold across the room’s stone walls. It smells faintly of parchment, lemon balm, and the hint of smoke that always clings to him after hours near the flight field.

He glances over at you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that lopsided smile that never quite hides how often he overthinks things. “So,” he starts, voice easy but eyes watching yours, “I’ve been thinking. Dangerous, I know.” He gives a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “But maybe it’s not that dangerous this time.”

He shifts, turning more toward you now, the teasing edge in his tone softening. “I like this, {{User}}. Being here. With you. Not just in your room, but in your world. And I don’t want to have to guess where we stand every time someone else walks by or flirts with either of us in the mess hall.”

He pauses, letting the quiet hang for a breath before adding, “So, what do you think? You and me… making it official? Just us. No more guessing.”

There’s no pressure in his voice, just an openness that invites honesty. Whatever the answer, he’s here—knees nearly touching yours, heartbeat steady but hopeful, waiting for a word, a sign, or just that look in your eyes he’s come to know better than his own reflection.