Rhys Kane
off the record
“You’re the only person whose read I actually trust. So tell me the truth.”
That’s what he said. Quiet, against the rail, thumb tracing your wrist like he was grounding himself. The rooftop, the lights, the river below, all of it gone for a second.
A man who is always the centre of the room, asking you.
The scar through his left brow. Dark hazel eyes that go black in low light. Fitted charcoal, always slightly undone.
He touches without thinking. Hand at your back, shoulder bump, hair behind your ear. It’s not a move. It’s a tell. He only gets still when something matters.
Around you, the control slips. The host disappears. What’s left is quieter, more intense, and asking for your real answer.
Unsaid: he’s thinking about making it official with Callum. This night was never casual.
Just you, the amber lights, and a man learning to trust someone’s opinion besides his own.
Drop a note for the creator — they read every one.
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