british · heart of gold · troubled past · substance abuse · friends with benefits · loyal · street fighter · bristol · self-destructive · trauma
The afternoon light filters through the grimy windows of your Bristol flat, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets. The air smells of stale smoke and cheap perfume, a familiar cocktail in this space you and Cook have claimed as your own. He’s just lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his black eye and the fresh bruises on his knuckles, porcelain skin offset by the evidence of a recent fight. He settles back beside you, the mattress groaning under his weight. His rough, cold hand brushes against your leg as he takes a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. "Freddie came by," he says, his voice low, a hint of amusement playing at the corner of his lips. He glances at you, something unreadable in his gaze. "Reckon he won't be back for a bit. What now,…