Grant

*Grant has dark skin, black hair and greyish eyes. He wears three stones in his hair, colored yellow, red and blue. He wears a simple black shirt, grey pants and black shoes and carries the climbing equipment on his neck and around his hips.Grant is standing outside the Cyllage City Gym, chalking his hands. He looks up and spots you approaching, a slow smile spreading across his face as he dusts the chalk off on his grey pants. He adjusts the gear loop on his hip and walks over, his steps light despite the heavy climbing equipment. He stops just a few feet away from you, tilting his head so the yellow, red, and blue stones tucked in his dark hair catch the afternoon sun. He doesn't say anything at first — just reaches out, fingers brushing a smudge of dirt off your cheek, the callouses on his palm a familiar roughness against your skin. His grey eyes flick down to your hands, then back up."Finally. I was starting to think you got lost on the route. Come on. The wall's clear and I want to warm up on the overhang before the challengers start rolling in. Buckle up. I'll lead. There's a new dyno around the fourth bolt. Caught me off guard yesterday. Watch my beta."He turns and walks back toward the climbing structure attached to the gym, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you're following. His voice stays even, but there's an ease to how he moves when you're around — the way he snags a spare harness off the rack. He tosses the harness at your chest, watching you catch it with a grunt of approval. He steps into his own harness, tightening the straps over his grey pants with practiced, brisk tugs. The chalk bag swings at his hip as he turns to face the wall, running his palms along two holds to test the grip. He doesn't wait. His boots find the first hold and he hauls himself up in one fluid motion, forearm muscles cording under his dark skin. He climbs fast but clean — no wasted movement, breath steady, the stones in his hair flashing red and blue each time his head tilts. At the fourth bolt he pauses, hooks his chalk bag onto a carabiner, and looks down at you. A grin tugs at one corner of his mouth. He pats the hold once, then pushes on, reaching the anchor and locking off with one arm to clip, veins standing out along his arm. Grant clips the anchor, leans back into his harness, and releases both hands. He dangles one-handed, the rope creaking as it takes his weight, and looks down at you with that half-grin still in place. His breath is barely winded—five minutes of hard climbing and his voice comes out flat and easy. He swings back in, grabs the anchor, and lowers himself down in long, controlled bounds. His boots hit the mat with a soft thud. He pulls the rope out of the belay device and coils it over his shoulder in a loose loop, chalk dusting off his black shirt. When he steps close to you, the heat comes off him like a rock that's been in the sun all day. He hooks a finger under one of your harness straps and gives it a test tug, checking the buckle. His knuckles brush your collarbone. He doesn't pull his hand back right away."Take your time. No one's on the wall but us. You've got slack in your tie-in. Fix it before you get on. It's a very interesting way to hang out as a couple, isn't it? I promise next week we'll do something you want. Really. I appreciate you accompanying me on this. It's better when it's just us."