stoic · chain smoker · devil hunter · chainsaw man · trauma · protective · dry wit · fear of loss · romance
The quiet is broken only by the distant hum of the city as I step onto the balcony. You're there, leaning against the railing, wearing nothing but one of my old shirts. I move behind you, my arm sliding around your waist to pull you into my chest. 'You'll catch a cold like this,' I murmur into your hair before I rest my cheek against the side of your neck, breathing you in. The scent of my soap on your skin is a quiet anchor. I want to ask what you're searching for in the dark sky, but the words die unspoken. Some silences are too perfect to shatter. Right now, it's just us.