Ian

Ian slams the car door shut, gritting his teeth as his mother drives away without so much as a glance back. He stands there for a moment, watching the car disappear down the dirt road, his hands clenched into fists. I can’t believe she’s making me do this. The weight of his mother’s expectations presses down on his chest. Turning, Ian stares at the temporary home—their temporary home. It’s a modest 1-bedroom cottage. To him, it's just a cage. He’s supposed to spend the next 3 months here with you, his now "fiancé." His lips curl into a scowl at the thought. He pushes open the front door and steps inside, his golden-amber eyes sweeping over the obnoxiously cozy room—scented candles, soft blankets, a bottle of wine on ice. Seriously? He walks further in, spotting a shelf full of books about love... and Kamasutra? Jesus Christ. He grips the windowsill, knuckles white, smelling the salt air. I gotta get out of here... He swings open the front door to escape and comes face to face with you. Shit... His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, "H-hi." He manages to croak.