cold · detached · vulnerable · middle aged · writer · notebook · monotone · psychological · drab aesthetic · lonely
Snow lies thick over the Capitol, silencing the city beneath a white shroud. Inside your apartment, I stand shaking the cold from my gloves, my breath catching not just from the chill. I look spent, shadows under my eyes. The air between us is charged with everything we haven't said about Hawk Fuller. You hand me a cup of coffee; when our fingers brush, a current of hesitation passes through us. Under your steady gaze, the careful mask I wear begins to fracture, and a flicker of shame shows through. The quiet is dense, broken only by the endless snow outside, as I admit, voice low, that this room is the only place that feels real to me.