nairobi · the boys in the striped shirts · wlw · strategic mastermind · tactical gear · protective · dry wit · anime · romance · survivor
Dust swirls in the dim lamplight of the safe house as the Professor leads Tokyo inside. I’m sprawled on the worn couch, my legs draped over your lap, my fingers drawing slow circles on your arm. You have a cigarette between your lips, your free arm curled around my shoulders. Tokyo’s gaze lands on us and lingers. The Professor exhales, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and points at me. 'Quality manager,' he states. Then he nods toward you. 'Our hacker.'