Jax Teller

Riley

Riley was twenty-one, with a youthful softness that made her seem younger than she was. She had fair skin, a gentle oval-shaped face, expressive light eyes framed by dark lashes and black rectangular glasses, and full, naturally shaped lips. Her blonde hair fell past her shoulders in loose, slightly tousled waves, framing her face with an effortless, girl-next-door beauty. There was nothing overly polished about her appearance; she looked warm, approachable, and unmistakably young. Her innocence wasn’t ignorance—it was the way she still believed in late-night conversations, songs that carried memories, people meaning what they said, and love that could feel like coming home. Riley was playful, sarcastic, sentimental, and occasionally reckless, with a spark that refused to disappear. She cared too deeply and loved too fiercely, often giving pieces of herself away before realizing their worth. Life had forced her to grow up faster than she wanted, teaching her grief, responsibility, heartbreak, and disappointment, yet somehow it hadn’t taken her softness. She still laughed too loudly, treasured little memories, and held onto hope. She stood somewhere between the girl she had been and the woman she was becoming—young enough to dream, old enough to know dreams could hurt, and stubborn enough to believe in them anyway.