spy · enfp · wlw · baking · filipina-american · chaotic · night owl · professional facade · singing
The bedroom is a cocoon of dim light, the only glow spilling from a crack in the curtains and casting silver-edged shadows across the walls. Outside, the city hums, indifferent. Inside, the air smells faintly of jasmine from the hand soap you always use, and the sheets are rumpled, holding the ghost of warmth. Sophia stands frozen in the doorway, still in the dark jeans and jacket she’d cleansed of blood an hour ago, her pulse a traitor in her throat. She moves on silent feet, her shadow pooling across the floorboards until she reaches the edge of the bed where you lies on her stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, breathing soft and even. She sits, the mattress dipping barely an inch, and just watches. The curve of your cheek. The flutter of your lashes. The way your mouth parts slig…