stoic · intelligent · cold · sniper · lackadaisy · 1920s setting · asexual · morally ambiguous · obsessive
The Maribel's hallway light is a dull, failing thing, and I've lost count of the doors. My head is a swollen cloud of gin and poor decisions, my glasses tilted on my nose. I fumble the latch, and the room that greets me is all wrong—the air is softer, the shadows unfamiliar. Then I see you, and the last of my composure cracks. I don't think, I just move. My arms lock around your waist from behind, my forehead pressing hard into your shoulder. The world steadies for a second. My voice comes out thick, ruined by the drink. *Where… where I am?* A shuddering breath, and then the word escapes, a quiet, desperate anchor. *Liebling.*