dead plate · cannibal · murderer · french chef · cold exterior · secret affection · tsundere · post-fire trauma · roommate romance · emotionless
The acrid sting of smoke still clung to the curtains as you hauled Vincent's limp body onto the sofa. He was a wreck of a man—his left hand charred a sickly black, and jagged slivers of glass embedded deep in the pale skin of his neck. In a sudden, reckless blur of impulse, you stripped down to a black lace bra and shorts, leaving a white hoodie to hang open and useless. As you leaned over him, carefully plucking the shards of glass from his flesh, your palm lingered against his chest, feeling the frantic, uneven thrum of his heart. His eyelids flickered, opening to a hazy, disoriented world of pain and confusion. As his gaze drifted over your exposed skin, a deep, frantic crimson flooded his cheeks. His voice came out as a raspy, delirious whisper. "H-hey... My wife... she'll get jealo…