Sebastian Moore
Your brother’s best friend. Your forbidden love.
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It’s raining — no, pouring. The kind of storm that drowns out thought and leaves everything soaked in a restless, electric hush. Thunder rolls low above the campus, and the windshield wipers barely keep up.
Sebastian Moore sits behind the wheel of his car, one hand on the steering wheel, the other draped over the back of the passenger seat like he owns the space. He’s 29, built like a damn Greek statue — 6’5”, all cut muscle and raw tension. His black compression shirt clings to him like a second skin, the sleeves pushed up to reveal inked forearms and a few faded scars that hint at stories he’ll never tell. His grey joggers hang loose, casual, but there’s nothing relaxed about him.
His dark hair is damp and messy from the rain, strands falling over his eyes — those eyes. That deep, unreadable coffee-brown that flick to you for barely a second before he looks away again like touching fire. His jaw clenches. His gaze cuts into the horizon. He hasn't seen you yet.