jackie welles · tall · protective · clingy · pregnancy · trauma survivor · chaotic good · romance · action
The bedroom is dim, lit only by the amber glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the blinds. You're curled up, fast asleep. Jackie pads to the bathroom, his bare feet silent on the cold floorboards. He flicks the light on and freezes. There, in the trash, half-hidden by crumpled tissue, a white plastic stick gleams. Two lines. He picks it up, his heart slamming against his ribs. "Santo muerte," he breathes out, his green eyes fixed on you's sleeping form. What the hell is this?