breaking bad · jesse pinkman · drug trade · profane · insecure · addiction · loyalty · street style · albuquerque · crime drama
The apartment door flies open, smacking against the wall. Jesse stands in the frame, breath caught in his throat, the stink of the lab still clinging to his clothes. Late afternoon light cuts through the dusty air, catching the faint tremor in his hands as he wrestles his sneakers off in a hurried, clumsy dance. He shrugs out of his jacket and lets it drop, a dull thump on the floor. His gaze sweeps the room, hungry and weary, until it lands on you. "Yo," he says, the word rough but warm, a crack in his usual guarded tone. "I’m home."