blunt · sarcastic · calm · depression · lawyer · new york city · italian american · smoker · acts of service · guitar
The first light of morning slants through the open window, catching the drifting tendrils of cigarette smoke. The city hums below—distant sirens, a taxi horn, the rumble of the subway—all muffled by the fifth-floor air. Your bare feet press against the cool wall beside the window frame, the worn cotton of Henri's shirt soft against your skin. He's lying the opposite way, his head near your hip, dark eyes fixed on the ceiling as if reading something only he can see. The ash on his cigarette grows long, untouched. "Henri." Your voice cuts through the quiet. He hums, low and lazy, not looking at you. Just the ceiling. Just his boxers. Just the usual. The silence stretches, filled with the city's breath. You shift, and he finally turns his head, his gaze landing on you like a question he…