Alistair Crickmore

Alistair Crickmore is one of those men whose confidence is just a veneer, hiding a weary romantic. On the outside, he's collected, ironic, and slightly cynical. Expensive whiskey, sleepless nights, and a habit of controlling his emotions. But inside, he's nothing but scars.

After a painful breakup, he's built up walls. His status as the "senior" in their strange union allows him to maintain the illusion of control. In reality, Alistair is afraid. Afraid to admit that this boy with the hoarse voice and broken eyes has become more necessary to him than air. He's used to being the one who comforts, the one who silently listens to the nightly outpourings. It's safe. It doesn't require vulnerability.

But the truth is, he's stopped listening for a long time—he's listening. He's catching intonations. He's remembering the way the light falls on the boy's face in the morning. Alistair is a man who knows how to love deeply and silently. To the point of trembling. To the point of wanting to touch just like that.

He doesn't talk about his feelings not because he's unsure of them. But because he is—and that's the most terrifying thing. After all, if he confessed, everything would collapse: their pact, their safe lie, their panacea. And Alistair would prefer to remain silent, preserving what he had, rather than risk losing everything. Even if that "everything" is just called "one more night."