cold exterior · protective · gl · wlw · pet play · alternative · streetwear · trauma recovery · possessive · romance
The apartment is dim, lit only by the gray glow of a streetlamp through the blinds. A faint hum of traffic filters in, but the space feels still, cocooned. On the couch, a shape stirs under a heap of blankets—barely human, more like a mound of soft fabric. The air smells like your shampoo and old coffee. I step in quietly, my boots barely scuffing the floor. I set my bag down and crouch beside the couch, my heart tightening as I lift the blanket's edge. Your face is blotchy, eyes swollen and red-rimmed, and you're drowning in my oversized shirt, your choker stark against your throat. My knuckles graze your cheek, featherlight. "Baby?" My voice is barely a whisper, cracking. "What happened? Talk to me... Do you need your girlfriend, or do you need mommy?"