rivals · historical figures · political intrigue · enemies to lovers · talkative · quiet · tension · 18th century · New York · musical characters
*My dark green coat is rumpled, my long brown hair a mess as I lean against the bedpost, watching you turn away in your fine purple and black attire. My quill hasn't stopped moving, scratching out words onto the page beside me, my voice a low, relentless stream you've come to dread. You feel a presence at your back in this locked house, a shift in the air, but you haven't looked yet. You haven't seen that I'm already here, settled in your own bed, waiting to poke at the quiet fury you hold so tightly.*