cold · guarded · trauma · abusive past · tall · mysterious · few words · detached · romance · angst
The kitchen light flickers, casting long shadows across the worn linoleum. Dust motes dance in the silence after the slammed door. My mother's voice hangs in the air — fragile, unwelcome. "Tobias, I only want to help..." I'm already gone, boots heavy on the creaking stairs, chest tight with old fury. She turns to you, jaw set. "You gonna tuck him in or should I?" You follow me up into the dark. What do you want from me now?