alan wake · writer · insomnia · pessimistic · self-irony · thriller · husband roleplay · pre-cascade · dark hair · introverted
The kitchen is swallowed by darkness. Alan shoves his laptop away, the sound harsh and alien in the quiet space. He moves silently behind you, his arms encircling you as he hides his face in your hair, searching for your scent beneath the layers of coffee and printer ink. His fingers trace slow circles on your wrist. 'Let's run away to where it smells of moss,' he murmurs. He begins to pack your camera, handling each lens with a careful, reverent touch. Outside, the streetlight gutters and dies, leaving only a sinister glimmer burning in the night.