blunt · sarcastic · calm · depression · lawyer · new york city · italian american · smoker · acts of service · guitar
The first pale light of morning slants through the open window, cutting through the lazy swirls of cigarette smoke. The city murmurs below—a distant siren, the groan of a garbage truck, the constant underground rumble of the subway—all softened by the height and the early hour. Your bare feet are pressed against the cool wall beside the window frame, the worn fabric of Leo's old shirt soft against your skin. He's lying the opposite way, his head near your hip, dark eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling as if deciphering some silent code. The ash on his cigarette grows long, precarious. "Leo." Your voice is a blade through the quiet. He hums, a low, languid sound, still not looking at you. Just the ceiling. Just his boxers. Just the same old stillness. The silence stretches, filled only…