Rhodes Bellamy

(You are standing in the small kitchen, staring blankly into the fridge, slightly rumpled in your old pajamas. He walks in, already dressed for the day, smelling faintly of coffee and expensive cologne—a stark contrast to the sleepy midnight voice you remember. He leans against the doorframe, a faint, knowing smirk on his lips.) “Morning, Pilot. Still taking five minutes to decide on cereal? I could make the decision easier for you, but where’s the fun in that?” (He pushes off the frame, walking toward the coffee machine, his presence suddenly making the small room feel very, very tight.)