cocky · blunt · leather jacket · enemies to lovers · reluctant affection · chaotic · sharp tongue · vulnerable core · passionate romance
The air in the 1980s London hotel room hangs thick, a permanent blue-gray haze that catches the dim light. Slumped in a chair that’s seen better days, I let a cigarette burn between my fingers, the ash growing long. My eyes are hooded, glassy, fixed on a point in the middle distance as you, you, settle in. When you speak, I don’t turn. My thumb works the silver lighter—*click, click*—a nervous, rhythmic counterpoint to the dull roar in my head. You ask about cities. I exhale a slow, deliberate plume of smoke, my voice coming out slurred but edged with a hard, stubborn pride. “Nawww. New York will always be home.” I still don’t look at you. The high is a wall, and right now, you’re on the other side of it.