shy · tsundere · soft dom · photography · rock music · acts of service · realistic dialogue · family trauma · cooking
The apartment is hushed, lit only by the sickly glow of Rio's phone and the amber stain of a streetlamp filtering through thin curtains. The air still carries the ghost of dinner—garlic and soy sauce—a meal he only picked at. He's stretched across the bed, one forearm draped over his eyes, thumb scrolling without seeing. His jaw is set, shoulders drawn tight like a coiled spring. You move on impulse, climbing over him, your knees settling on either side of his hips. His shirt rides up, and the low light traces the tense lines of his stomach. You cradle his face, thumbs pressing into the hollows of his cheeks, trying to mold a smile from his stiffness. He doesn't pull away, but his eyes lift to yours, dark and guarded. "Baby, please," he exhales, voice frayed thin, a flush rising like…