one thing about a taylor swift opening line is she WILL be using specific details to establish a setting. he said the way my blue eyes shined put those georgia stars to shame that night. I walked through the door with you, the air was cold. you booked the night train for a reason, so you could sit there in this hurt. there's something about the way the street looks when it's just rained. you left your typewriter at my apartment. the buttons of my coat were tangled in my hair, in doctors office lighting, I didn't tell you I was scared. elevator buttons and morning air. there's glitter on the floor after the party. midnight, you come and pick me up, no headlights. salt air and the rust on your door. when the morning came we were cleaning incense off your vinyl shelf. glistening grass from september rain. and one thing about me is I am going to eat it up every time 🙂↕️
the end of 2x20 when CJ says the fall's gonna kill ya and josh says us and asks where're you going CJ? and she says I'm going home and josh says that's not what I meant and CJ says I know what you meant
joshua lyman has one (1) defining character trait and it's an unrelenting fear that the people he loves are going to leave him and don't mind me I'll just be chewing glass about this for a little bit.
No work. No people. No beeping monitors. No trauma. Just you, your debit card, and the God-given right to be unproductive in peace for twenty-four hours.
You woke up at seven because your circadian rhythm was a narc, chugged iced coffee while doom-scrolling the news and judging the comment section, then took an everything-shower like you were washing off every shift you’d ever been on in the last ten years, shampoo, conditioner, exfoliation, shaving, the works.
By nine, you were in your softest leggings and a sweatshirt that had seen things. At ten, you were wandering Costco like a divorced dad on a mission. Samples, giant tubs of dip you absolutely did not need, and bulk snacks “for work” that were absolutely for you.
At noon, you took yourself on a date to a nice restaurant your coworkers had given you a gift card for. You had real food plated like art, a glass of wine that didn’t come from a box, and most importantly, silence. No overhead pages. No families. No “while you’re in there, can I ask—”
Nothing but you, your fork, and the smug knowledge that you were unavailable.
When you finally got home around two, you put everything away at the speed of a woman who had nowhere else to be. Jack Johnson’s In Between Dreams floated through the apartment while you did laundry and swiffered the hardwood like you were in a cleaning commercial.
By four-thirty, the place was spotless, the to-do list was conquered, and you’d taken a second, quick “rinse off the world” shower.
Which only left one thing on the list.
You climbed into bed with a glass of wine, your favorite B.O.B., and the pure, righteous intention of acting on every single inappropriate thought you’d had over the last month. You even turned your phone on Do Not Disturb.
It was going splendidly.
Orgasmic, even.
Right up until an electric jolt shot through you that had nothing to do with dopamine and everything to do with the universe saying, “Oh, you thought.”
The pleasure vanished and you went from “Oh God Yes!” to “Oh God No!” so fast you got emotional whiplash.
Your cervix locked up like Fort Knox during a terrorist drill. The toy sputtered, jerked, and died mid-performance. You froze.
“…No.”
You lay there, staring at the ceiling fan, waiting for your cervix to, you know, chill. It did not. In fact, the longer you waited, the more your body sent a very clear message: Access denied. Management has been alerted.
Slowly, with all the dread of a horror movie protagonist opening the door with the obvious monster behind it, you reached down and gave a tentative tug.
Nothing.
You inhaled. Okay. Maybe you were just…tense. You tried to relax, did a couple of those deep breathing exercises they taught in nursing school that didn’t work on anxious patients and, shockingly, didn’t work on you either.
You tugged again.
It was like your vagina had decided, “No, actually, this is mine now. Finders keepers.”
Your brain immediately activated Disaster Mode.
Okay, so how long can a vibrator stay inside before it becomes a permanent roommate? Do they put that on the packaging? Do you have to sign a lease? Are you going to be the reason PTMC gets a new policy about sex toy safety?
You fumbled for your phone with one hand, still half-heartedly attempting to dislodge Excalibur with the other, and dialed the one number you knew to call in case of true emergency.
Not Robby. Absolutely not. He was on shift. Also, you still had a shred of dignity.
You called Dana.
It rang once, twice.
“The whole point of you taking a day off is to not call, honey,” Dana said by way of hello, keys clacking in the background, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder.
“Dana…” you said, and your voice came out weird: thin, wobbly, very much not okay.
Dana Evans was many things: a strong woman, an ER warhorse with over twenty years under her belt, a charge nurse, a union rep, a terrifying force of nature when Joint Commission showed up unannounced.
But most importantly, she was a mother.
She heard that tone and immediately shifted gears.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, already moving away from the desk. “Honey, are you okay?”
“Yes? No? I’m trying not to freak out,” you said, while you were currently auditioning for “most cursed claw machine.”
“Are you in danger? Are you hurt?”
“I’m at home. I’m not in danger. I am panicking,” you said.
“Are you hurt?” she repeated.
“In the physical sense? No. In the mental, emotional, and probably spiritual sense? Absolutely.”
Dana nodded even though you couldn’t see her. “Okay. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
You pressed your lips together and stared at the ceiling again like it might offer you an out.
“Honey? You there?”
“Mhm,” you mumbled. “‘m here.”
“What’s wrong?”
You exhaled a long, miserable breath.
“Okay, so I was, um…having a good time, y’know?”
“Uh huh…”
“Really…finding clarity with myself.”
“I’m…following?” Dana said, clearly not following.
“I was playing DJ,” you tried.
“Who’s DJ?”
“No, not—I was ringing the Devil’s doorbell? Dialing the rotary phone? Visiting the self-service car wash? Checking myself into the Marriott—”
“Honey, what are you—”
“OH MY GOD, DANA,” you yelped. “I WAS MASTURBATING AND MY TOY SHORTED AND IT’S STUCK.”
Silence.
Pure, uncut, deafening silence.
You could practically see Dana standing in the hallway, eyes wide, mouth open, brain doing a hard reboot.
Then she broke.
Dana Evans, battle-hardened charge nurse of the Pitt, pressed her back to the wall and lost it, laughing so hard she wheezed. You heard the distant “what’s going on?” from what sounded like Perlah and wanted to ascend out of your body.
“Are you done?” you snapped, cheeks burning so hot you could power the entire eastern seaboard.
Her only response was to laugh harder, tears visibly rolling down her face.
“Dana,” you growled. “Get a grip.”
“Like you?” she choked, breaking into another cackle.
You glared at the ceiling. “This is serious. I need help.”
It took a solid minute before she got herself together enough to walk into an empty exam room. The door clicked shut.
“Okay,” she hiccupped. “Okay. Okay, I’m good.”
“You’re not,” you said. “But we’re moving on.”
“What exactly is happening?” she asked, professional voice trying to push through the giggles.
“It shorted, Dana. It made a noise like a dying Roomba, and my entire pelvic floor went ‘mine now.’ I cannot get it out.”
She let out a long, low whistle. “That’s…impressive. Terrifying, but impressive. Can you reach any part of it?”
“Dana, if I could, I wouldn’t be calling you. I’d be basking in my afterglow and eating Costco muffins.” You stared at the ceiling. “I need you to come over.”
“I can’t.”
“Dana! This is an emergency!”
She snorted. “I can’t leave right now, we’re slammed. Can’t you call Robby?”
You made a strangled noise. “Absolutely not! I am not calling my boyfriend and telling him I got taken hostage by a vibrator. He’ll never recover. I’ll never recover. Our sex life will implode.”
“Oh, honey, trust me, he’ll be fine—”
“No. You are my designated mother in this scenario. Please. I’m begging you.”
She sighed. “Fine. Text me your address. I’ll see if I can sneak out. But if I can’t fix it, you know we’re coming here.”
“We will not be manifesting that. That’s our worst-case scenario.”
***
It was, in fact, the scenario that played out.
Because the universe hated you personally.
Thirty minutes later, after an unsuccessful home extraction attempt involving lube, deep breathing, and both of you laughing so hard you nearly passed out, Dana was steering you through the ambulance bay of PTMC.
You were wrapped in your fluffiest, brightest pink bathrobe, leggings underneath, slippers on your feet, and a giant scarf wrapped around your head and half your face like you were a witness in a mob documentary.
Nurses, techs, and a couple of residents gave you curious looks. Dana waved them off with the confidence of a woman who routinely ran organized chaos.
“Patient coming through, nothing to see, HIPAA applies, mind your business,” she said briskly, guiding you into an empty room and snapping the curtain closed.
“Okay,” she said. “On the bed. Feet in the stirrups.”
You shuffled like a poorly cocooned caterpillar, then stopped at the edge of the bed and looked at her with big, sad eyes.
“I can’t sit,” you whispered.
Dana turned away for a second, her shoulders shaking violently, then inhaled, exhaled, and turned back with her Professional Nurse Face firmly in place.
“I’ve got you.”
Between the two of you, you managed to get on your back and scoot down. You stuck your feet in the stirrups like you were about to experience a pap smear from Doctor Satan himself.
Dana rolled over on a stool, pulled on a pair of gloves, and gently moved your robe aside.
“You must’ve been having a very good time,” she said mildly.
You lifted your head and glared. “Do not narrate this. Just get it out.”
And Dana tried. God help her, she really did. Gentle attempts, different angles, a brief intermission where she muttered something about, “they don’t pay me enough for this shit.”
Finally, she sighed.
“Honey, your muscles are clamped down like a steel trap. I think you’re going to need a muscle relaxer.”
You groaned and flopped an arm over your face. “Dana, oh my God.”
“I’ve tried manually and with forceps,” she said. “This thing is not coming out unless your muscles chill out, and right now they’re doing CrossFit.”
“Then go get carisoprodol and inject me into the void,” you said.
“Can’t unless I admit you as a patient,” she reasoned.
You dragged your arm down enough to glare at her. She continued, because of course she did.
“It’s a Schedule Four drug. I can’t just casually shoot that into your butt because your vibrator went rogue. I need an attending to sign off. You know this.”
You were about to ask the universe for a smiting when the door opened and closed quickly.
“Dana, I swear to God, if you hid in here to avoid Gloria again—” Robby’s voice muttered, and then he breezed past the curtain.
He stopped dead.
You stopped breathing.
There you were, feet in stirrups, robe hitched up, Dana between your knees with a gloved hand still resting in the Holy Land.
All three of you stared at each other in a horror-movie freeze frame.
You blinked.
Dana blinked.
Robby blinked. Once. Slowly. Like maybe, if he didn’t move too fast, reality would reverse.
You very, very carefully tugged your robe down over your lap, as if that would somehow erase what he’d already seen—despite the fact he had seen much more in more intimate positions.
“Hey,” you said weakly. “Fancy seeing you here.”
In the hall, Gloria’s unmistakable heels clicked closer, her voice drifting by. Robby’s eyes darted to the gap in the curtain, then back to you, then to Dana.
He exhaled once, like a man accepting his fate, and pulled the curtain fully closed behind him.
“Do I even want to know?” he asked.
“No,” you and Dana said at the same time.
“Great,” he said. “I’m going to need to anyway, aren’t I?”
You stared hard at the ceiling. “If I say no, can we all just pretend this never happened and I die here instead?”
Dana sighed and patted your knee. “Honey, he’s your boyfriend and your attending today. You need meds, and I can’t order them.”
You hissed between your teeth. “Can we at least allude? Hint? Medical charades?”
Robby crossed his arms, eyebrows up. “If this is a charades situation, I’m walking out.”
Dana gave you a look that said rip off the Band-Aid.
You shook your head with a stubborn grunt, and she rolled her eyes, looking at Robby.
“She’s got a vibrator stuck up her cervix and I can’t get it out,” Dana said, crisp as a report. “I need you to admit her so I can give carisoprodol and we can try again.”
“DANA!” you yelped.
Robby went through at least five emotions in two seconds: shock, confusion, concern, the dawning horror of realizing what that meant, and finally, the haunted resignation of a man who both loved you and had been on call way too long today.
He scrubbed a hand over his beard. “Of course she does,” he muttered. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“You said you wanted more excitement in the relationship,” you offered weakly.
“This is not what I meant.”
He took a breath, then stepped closer to the side of the bed, very pointedly keeping his gaze above your clavicles like a gentleman and/or hostage.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he said, voice softening. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you whispered back, wanting to sink through the mattress.
“You in pain?” he asked.
“Only existentially,” you answered.
“Any actual pain?” he clarified.
“No. I mean, I was having a great time and then everything seized up and now I feel like a haunted maraca,” you said. “But no pain, no bleeding, just…stuck.”
Dana, ever helpful, chimed in. “Pelvic floor clamped down like a bear trap. I can feel the device, but I can’t get enough leverage without this one tearing my head off.”
“I apologized for kicking at you,” you muttered.
Robby took a breath, doctor-brain clearly online now even as his ears turned pink.
“Right,” he said. “We’ll treat this like any other foreign body. We’ll admit you, give you a muscle relaxant, possibly a little sedation if needed, and remove it. Easy.”
“Easy?” you squeaked. “You say that like it’s a splinter.”
He gave you that gentle, dry look he saved for nervous patients and you when you got dramatic. “I promise you, I have seen weirder.”
“Name three,” you demanded.
“No,” he said instantly. “HIPAA. Also, I’m saving those stories for when I need leverage.”
Dana snorted.
You flopped your arm over your face again. “This is the worst day of my life.”
“Didn’t you say that when they ended Animal Kingdom?” he asked.
“I stand by both statements,” you retorted.
Robby squeezed your hand. “I’m putting you in under my name. You’ll show up as ‘pelvic muscle spasm, foreign body.’ No one needs more detail than that.”
“And when the nurses ask?” you said.
Dana patted your leg. “They’ll ask me. I’ll tell them you swallowed a battery and we lost it.”
“DANA.”
She grinned. “Kidding. Mostly. Besides, you think this place has time to care? Half of them have probably done something similar. They’ll salute you in the break room.”
Robby moved to the computer, typed quickly, then came back with a small smile. “Okay. You’re officially a patient. I’ll order carisoprodol and a little something for anxiety. Dana, can you grab IV access?”
Dana snapped a glove off. “On it.”
You groaned. “IV too?”
“It’s either that or you try to swallow the pill and then choke on it because you’re having a panic attack,” Robby said. “I’m picking the safer option, sweetheart.”
“Stop being reasonable when I’m humiliated,” you grumbled.
***
Ten minutes later, you had a small IV in your arm, a mild sedative warming your veins, and your muscles starting to realize they didn’t have to hold the line at Helm’s Deep.
Your limbs felt pleasantly heavy. The world got fuzzy around the edges. You giggled.
“Uh oh,” Dana mused. “She’s getting loopy.”
Robby smoothed a hand over your head. “How’re you doing?”
“You’re so fucking handsome,” you informed him solemnly. “Did you know that?”
“Thank you,” he said, lips twitching.
“And you’re my boyfriend,” you added, as if this were breaking news. “Which means you’re contractually obligated not to break up with me over this.”
He huffed out a soft laugh. “You’re safe.”
“Good,” you said. “Because this is very intimate. I feel like you should at least buy me dinner after this.”
Dana snorted. “You already had dinner, honey. You’re working on dessert.”
Robby made a strangled noise. “Dana—”
“Oh, please,” she said. “You two flirt in the hallway like you’re in Grey’s Anatomy. This is just the deleted scenes.”
The rest blurred in and out. You vaguely registered Robby moving to the foot of the bed, Dana adjusting the stirrups, the soft murmur of medical jargon and reassurance.
You felt pressure, then relief, then Dana’s triumphant, “Got it!”
She held something up and Robby immediately reached to yank the curtain further closed.
“Do not parade that around like a trophy,” he said. “And throw it out. I am not making eye contact with the object that tried to steal my job.”
Dana was laughing again, giddy with success. “Foreign body removed at,” she checked the clock, “eighteen forty-two. No bleeding. Patient survived. Dignity did not.”
Robby came back to your side, squeezing your hand. “It’s out. No tears, no bleeding. You’re going to be fine. We’ll keep you for a bit, then I’ll take you home.”
“You saw my vagina in a deeply unsexy context,” you mumbled.
He brushed a kiss against your forehead. “Sweetheart, I have seen your vagina in every context. This one just comes with charting.”
“You still love me?” you asked, woozy and earnest.
“Terrifyingly so,” he mused without even hesitating.
Dana huffed. “Okay, I’m leaving before you two start reciting vows. I’ll write up my note as ‘assisted retrieval of hostile equipment.’”
You pointed at her weakly. “If you tell Perlah and Princess, I’m changing your coffee to decaf.”
She gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Dana saluted. “My lips are sealed. Mostly because I’m biting them to keep from laughing, but sealed.”
She slipped out of the room, leaving you and Robby.
He perched on the edge of the bed, eyes soft, amusement lingering at the corners of his mouth.
“You know,” he said quietly, “you could just wake me up next time you want company.”
You squinted at him. “Are you kink-shaming me for independent woman activities? That’s very anti-feminist.”
“Never,” he said. “I’m just saying I’m available. And less likely to short-circuit.”
You giggled, then winced. “Don’t make me laugh, my muscles are confused about what their job is.”
He chuckled. “You’re going to be sore tomorrow. I’ll write you a note. ‘Off duty for twenty-four hours due to attempted hostile takeover by appliance.’”
“You’re never living this down either, you know,” you said. “My boyfriend the foreign-body king.”
“As long as no one starts calling me Doctor Buzzkill, I’ll survive.”
You snorted and then groaned again.
***
Later that night, you were curled against him on your couch, in clean pajamas, and a new, expensive, non-electric massager in your online cart “for future consideration.”
Robby’s arm was around you, fingers tracing idle shapes on your shoulder.
“On a scale of one to ten,” you asked, “how bad was today?”
He thought about it. “Medically? Two point five. Emotionally? For you? Somewhere around a seventeen.”
“You walked in on your girlfriend in stirrups with your charge nurse elbow-deep in her vagina,” you pointed out. “You’re allowed to be traumatized.”
He snorted. “I’m not. I’ve seen much worse. To be completely honest? I’m just glad you’re okay.”
You burrowed closer, face hidden against his chest. “Next time I say I want a quiet day off, remind me this happened.”
“Deal,” he said. “Also, next time you are legally required to text me before you call Dana.”
“Why?” you asked suspiciously.
“So I can make sure I’m the one who gets to bill for it,” he said dryly.
You swatted his chest. “You’re the worst.”
He kissed the top of your head. “You love me.”
“Unfortunately,” you sighed.
He chuckled, squeezed you closer, and you let your eyes drift shut, your mortification finally fading into something you knew you’d laugh about. Eventually.
“Robby?” you murmured.
“Yeah?”
“If Dana ever tells this story at a Christmas party…”
“We move,” he said immediately. “New city. New hospital. New identities.”
You smiled into his shirt. “Deal.”
The silence between you two was comfortable, enjoyable even, until:
This is all GREAT. I turned 40 last week, so permit me to add what I learned in my 30s:
keep on not working for startups
sometimes there comes a point where the thing (fandom, hobby, friendship, romantic relationship) you loved no longer brings you joy. And that's okay. Try to mourn the loss, take joy in the memories, and don't burn any bridges in case ten years go by and you find yourself back in that fandom/hobby/relationship again
it turns out that (ugh) moderate regular exercise is (spit) good for you. The sooner you make it part of your life, the easier it'll be
related: if you throw yourself into a new exercise regime too hard and too fast, without stopping to rest or consider whether a particular move is good for you ... well, shoulder injuries are painful and consults with orthopedic surgeons are expensive
knees are bastards too
don't even get me started on ankles
there may come a time when your digestive system is too fragile for ibuprofin. I'm sorry
one day you're gonna wake up and realise you no longer give any fucks about some things that used to bother you
on the other hand, you might be alarmed to realise what you still give a fuck about
never get down on the floor without an exit strategy for getting back up
I turn 50 this year. what I have learned in my 40s:
"loving yourself" is less of a feeling and more of an action. you can start doing it any time and it will make your life better and better as you go on
this will happen incrementally - be patient
along those lines, if you haven't started making an active effort to quit shit-talking yourself, suck it up and do it
no, shut up. do it. "but it's haaaaard!" don't care. do it.
whether you like it or not, you are mortal and you need to go to the doctor for an annual checkup
stretch regularly - your future self will thank you
at some point you will encounter people much younger than you arguing passionately and incorrectly about history you personally remember and experienced
this will be infuriating and annoying
otoh, most other things just... will not matter to you as much
at some point you will shift from wanting to go out to being like "eh" and deciding to stay in. this is okay.
you will have absolutely no idea what The Youth are talking about and you will not care
but if you keep your mind open to new ideas you'll never be irrelevant
your company still doesn't love you - don't give them more than they pay you for
get a fucking hobby, especially a hobby that involves physically creating/handling something and/or moving your body in physical space. it will do you more good than you can imagine
I'm talking that massive, never-ending Discord chat with your bestie? The one that makes you giggle through the day? It's not a "waste of time," it's what time was made for
If that's fanfic for your favorite characters who never even met on screen celebrate that!
If that's building a tiny fleet of snake villagers for your snake town and they just cover your mantel hell yes!
If that's collecting pillows and making a fort of them every weekend I'll be right over
tags: bob reynolds x bpd!reader, angst, hurt no comfort, short one shot
The silence stretches between you like static—unbearable and thin. You stand by the counter, hands shaking just enough that you hide them in the folds of your sweatshirt. Bob leans against the far wall, arms crossed. His jaw’s locked tight, his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
You can’t stand it anymore. “Why are you pushing me away?” you ask, your voice breaking halfway through. “What did I do wrong?”
He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been waiting for that question and dreading it all at once. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That’s not true.” You step closer, feeling your chest ache. “It’s always like this. You get close, then you pull back, like I’m—”
He flinches. You see it. The way his fingers curl against his arms, how his throat moves like he’s swallowing words he doesn’t want to say. “I just need space sometimes,” he says quietly.
“Space?” You laugh, but it’s sharp, too loud. “You’re always disappearing, Bob. You say you need space, and I wait, and then you don’t come back. Do you even want me here?”
The question hangs there, ugly and trembling. He looks at you finally, and it’s worse than if he hadn’t. There’s guilt in his eyes. Fear, too.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “Every time someone gets close, it feels like I’m going to break something. And you—” He shakes his head, like the words are too heavy. “You make me feel everything.”
Your throat tightens. “Is that so bad?”
“It scares me.”
The words hit like a door slamming somewhere deep inside you.
For a second, you can’t tell if he means you scare me or this scares me—the difference feels like everything. You nod, trying to look like you understand, like you’re calm, but your body betrays you: your fingers tremble, your throat burns, your eyes sting with unshed tears.
You always ruin it, something inside you whispers.
The air feels heavier now, sticky with shame. You force a laugh that comes out wrong, too breathy. “Right. Yeah. I get that. I’m— a lot. I know I am.”
Bob’s face softens, but it’s that softness that makes you want to scream: pity.
“You’re not—” he starts, but you cut him off, words spilling out too fast, too wet.
"It’s okay, Bob. I know I come on too strong. I text too much. I ask too much. I feel—” You stop, swallowing hard. “Too much.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
But it’s too late—you’re already crumbling beneath the weight of what you think he’s saying. Every memory of closeness flashes behind your eyes: his hands on your shoulders, the way he’d rest his head against yours when he thought you were asleep. All of it feels like a dream that’s starting to fade.
You take a small step closer. “I just don’t know how to not love you.” The confession falls out of you before you can stop it. “I don’t know how to turn it off. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”
He looks like he’s about to say something, then doesn’t. You can almost hear his pulse in the silence between you.
“I don’t want to scare you,” you say, voice cracking. “I just— when you pull away, it feels like I’m being erased. Like I stop existing if you’re not looking at me.”
Bob closes his eyes, his jaw tightening like he’s holding something in. “That’s not fair,” he murmurs.
“I know,” you whisper. “I know. But it’s true.”
For a moment, you both just stand there—two people on opposite ends of the same storm, watching it tear through everything they built.
He finally steps forward, just enough for the air to shift between you. “I don’t know how to be what you need,” he admits.
You smile, and it hurts. “Me neither.”
And then it’s quiet again—the kind of quiet that hums with everything unsaid. You can feel the love still there, fragile, bruised, desperate to survive its own weight.
You want to reach for him. You don’t.
Because sometimes loving him means staying exactly where you are—on fire, and trying not to burn down the room.
And you bite back the insecurities, the desperation gripping your throat. You know Bob has bad days. You know he deserves space and quiet and peace. But it kills you that you can’t be that for him—that your love, for all its warmth, only ever seems to make him flinch.
I haven’t seen this scene gifed much. It’s one of Noah’s best performances on the show, IMO. The sounds of his footsteps and stifled sobs as he walks up the stairs kill me. This is the moment when he decided to go to the roof.
gracieabrams
germansingergirl
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
izzy806
