HOME | DD

Description
he's curled up at one end of the sofa, legs tucked underneath him, book in hand, glasses so low on his nose they're practically in his lap already.

she doesn't recognise the book, but it's tattered and worn, like he's already read it a thousand times. like he could probably recite whole passages from memory at his point.

his hair is a mess. there's a hole in his t-shirt, just below his right shoulder, and his jeans are split at the knee. his fingers are covered in what's probably paint, or maybe ink, and there's matching smudges on the bridge of his nose, from his apparently futile efforts to keep his glasses up. the bags under his eyes are dark purple, so he probably hasn't slept. he's twitching, ever so slightly.

she stops in the doorway. drinks in the sight of him. opens her mouth.

imagines what the words would sound like. her tone, his reaction. the weight finally lifted off her chest.

and dumped onto his shoulders instead.

he doesn't need to lose anymore sleep. he stoops over enough as it is, the stupidly tall idiot.

she closes her mouth.

walks into the room. grabs the empty mug - once filled with coffee, judging by the stains - from the floor by his feet as she passes. ruffles his hair, just because she can.

she's in the kitchen, making another pot of coffee, by the time he looks up, around, frowns, calls her name. she rolls her eyes.

it's better this way. she's sure of it.

Description
he's curled up at one end of the sofa, legs tucked underneath him, book in hand, glasses so low on his nose they're practically in his lap already.

she doesn't recognise the book, but it's tattered and worn, like he's already read it a thousand times. like he could probably recite whole passages from memory at his point.

his hair is a mess. there's a hole in his t-shirt, just below his right shoulder, and his jeans are split at the knee. his fingers are covered in what's probably paint, or maybe ink, and there's matching smudges on the bridge of his nose, from his apparently futile efforts to keep his glasses up. the bags under his eyes are dark purple, so he probably hasn't slept. he's twitching, ever so slightly.

she stops in the doorway. drinks in the sight of him. opens her mouth.

imagines what the words would sound like. her tone, his reaction. the weight finally lifted off her chest.

and dumped onto his shoulders instead.

he doesn't need to lose anymore sleep. he stoops over enough as it is, the stupidly tall idiot.

she closes her mouth.

walks into the room. grabs the empty mug - once filled with coffee, judging by the stains - from the floor by his feet as she passes. ruffles his hair, just because she can.

she's in the kitchen, making another pot of coffee, by the time he looks up, around, frowns, calls her name. she rolls her eyes.

it's better this way. she's sure of it.