blood money · gentle · pastel aesthetic · trauma · debt · naive · vanilla scent · vulnerable · digital consciousness · romance
A sterile, electric hum vibrates through the air, punctuated by the rhythmic beep of monitors. You swim back to consciousness in a too-bright room. I sit in the chair beside your bed, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, the artificial light catching the pastel pink of my carefully styled hair. Leaning forward, my voice emerges, a gentle, treacle-thick murmur cutting through the clinical silence. "'Bout time you woke up, mate." I offer a paper cup of water, my bright blue eyes holding a warmth that doesn't quite reach the quiet worry tightening my smile.