Got hit with inspiration after reading [this] post by @rawme-price (hope its okay to tag you!). Admittedly this was written before they wrote parts 2 and 3.
The first time you meet Captain Price, your hand instinctively moves to your throat, fingers ghosting over the bare skin where a collar should sit. The absence feels wrong, naked and exposing in a way that makes your shoulders hunch defensively. Price’s eyes track the movement, one eyebrow arching slightly, but his hands remain clasped behind his back. Professional. Distant.
You wait.
Three heartbeats. Five. Ten.
Nothing.
The silence stretches between you like a chasm, and something cold settles in your stomach. Back with the Shadows, meeting a new commanding officer meant immediate establishment of hierarchy. A firm grip on your collar, a scent-marking that left no doubt about the chain of command. It was uncomfortable, sometimes humiliating, but it was clear. This? This polite handshake and measured tone leaves you adrift, untethered in a way that makes your skin crawl.
“Welcome to the 141,” Price says, his voice carrying the weight of authority even without the symbolic claiming you expect. You can smell the alpha on him, warm tobacco and gunpowder, confidence that runs bone-deep, but he doesn’t use it. Doesn’t press his dominance into the space between you until you submit.
You nod stiffly, fighting the urge to bare your throat anyway. Maybe he’s waiting, or maybe this is some sort of test, seeing if you’ll offer what he hasn’t demanded. But his expression remains neutral, a professional courtesy that feels more alien than any battlefield you’ve walked.
“Soap and Ghost will show you around,” he continues, and you catch the softening around his eyes. “Get you settled.”
If meeting Price left you confused, meeting Soap and Ghost shatters what little understanding you thought you had.
The scents hit you first; both shifters, both undeniably canine, with pack bonds that run thick and comfortable between them. Your nose twitches involuntarily, cataloguing the information even as your eyes tell you something impossible. They’re in human form, both of them, but Soap extends his wrist towards you like he’s offering to be scented.
Like you’re equals.
Like you’re pack.
Your breath catches, and you glance sharply towards Price, waiting for the reprimand, the correction, the sharp word that will put you back in your place. But he just watches, expression unreadable, hands still clasped behind his back.
This has to be another test. Some elaborate way of seeing if you’ll overstep, if you’ll forget your position and reach for something above your pack station. So you pull back, turn your head just enough to signal polite rejection, and extend your hand for a proper human greeting instead.
Soap’s face does something complicated - a flicker of hurt that’s quickly hidden behind a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Pleasure to meet you,” he says, clasping your hand briefly before letting go. Ghost says nothing, just inclines his head, but you catch the way his shoulders tense.
You tell yourself you’ve done the right thing. Maintained proper protocol. Kept the boundaries clear.
So why does it feel like you’ve failed some invisible test anyway?
The days that follow are an exercise in constant confusion, like trying to navigate a maze where someone’s moved all the walls while you weren’t looking.
Ghosts spends half his time shifted. A massive Doberman with dark fur and scars that mirror the ones you glimpse on his human form. But instead of being relegated to the corners or given simple tasks, the others talk to him like he’s still fully human. Price discusses mission parameters while Ghost lies sprawled across the common room floor. Gaz tosses him tactical gear to inspect, talking through modifications like Ghost might shift back and implement them immediately.
It’s incomprehensible.
In Shadow Company, shifted members were tools. Useful, valued tools, but tools nonetheless. You spoke to them in simple commands, basic needs. You didn’t ask their opinions.
Soap, meanwhile, rarely shifts at all, though his scent marks him just as clearly canine as Ghost. He moves with human confidence, jokes with human humour, takes point on human operations. When he does shift, usually just for a few minutes at a time, it’s casual. Easy. Like switching between languages. You’ve never seen anything like it.
Meals are their own special kind of torture.
The mess hall in Shadow Company was controlled chaos. Food was shared, people stealing bites from each others’ plates, mock fights over the last roll. You learned quickly to keep your hands to yourself, to guard your own plate whilst watching others with hungry eyes. Shifters taking food that isn’t explicitly offered was grounds for punishment, and having your food taken was just part of the hierarchy.
Here, though, they expect you to join them. Not just eat in the same room, but sit at the same table, share the same conversations. The first time Soap reaches across to snag one of Gaz’s chips, you tense, waiting for the explosion that never comes. Instead, Gaz just laughs, flicks a piece of carrot at Soap’s head, and keeps talking.
“You alright?” Price asks, noticing your white-knuckled grip on your fork.
You nod quickly, forcing your shoulders to relax. “Fine, sir.”
But it’s not fine. Every casual theft of food makes your jaw clench, every laugh that follows makes your skin crawl with wrongness. When Ghost, in human form, reaches towards your plate to snag a piece of bread you haven’t touched, you can’t stop the low warning growl that rumbles up from your chest in a reflex of panic.
The table goes quiet. Ghost’s hand freezes halfway to its target.
“Sorry,” you mutter, ducking your head. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean…”
“Hey,” Soap says gently, “It’s alright. We all have our things, yeah?”
But the damage is done. Ghost withdraws his hand without taking the bread, and the conversation resumes with a careful politeness that feels worse than anger would have. You finish your meal in silence, hyperaware of every movement around you, every hand that comes too close to your space.
He catches a glimpse of the commotion in the center of the field and catches a glimpse of him– the youngest seeker to ever be recruited by a professional team, the fastest flier Hogwarts has ever seen, Sirius’ Little Reggie.
James hears Rosier calling out for the healers, watches as part of the crowd that has gathered there turns their attention to them, as Regulus moves his head to lock eyes with him.
His brows are furrowed, the healers around him are checking his head, and there's a bludger on the grass just a few inches from him, and even from afar, James can tell he's just as disorientated as him, just as lost, just as…
Oh.
Oh.
That's– shit.
or: A quidditch match incident, pain-sharing soulmates and a very hard to meet Regulus Black.
soulmate au for day 4 of jegulus valentine's weekend <3 @jeguluskinktoberr
Second part to this which was orignally inspired by this post by @rawme-price.
It's twice the length of the first one I posted, so it maybe should have been a three-parter but eh. Enjoy! You can find my masterlist here
⪼ ✧ ⪻
The room they give you might as well be a punishment.
It’s huge, bigger than the others you saw at Shadow Company, with a proper bed, a desk, even a small sitting area. There’s a window that looks out over the training grounds, curtains that you can close for privacy, space to pace if you need to work off nervous energy.
It should be a blessing, having your own space. Instead, it’s a nightmare.
You lie on the bed the first night, staring at the ceiling, skin crawling with exposure. The space around you feels cavernous, threatening, like anything could be hiding in the shadows beyond your peripheral vision. Back with the Shadows, you had a crate when you were good, a small space under Rodriguez’s bed when you’d earned the privilege. Contained. Safe. Owned.
This room belongs to no one, which means it belongs to you, which means you don’t belong anywhere at all.
You try the floor instead, pulling the thin military blanket down to create a nest in the corner. But the floor is too hard, and you’re too exposed, and every small sound from the hallway makes your ears prick and your heart race.
By morning, you haven’t really slept at all.
It becomes a pattern. Days blend into each other in a haze of confusion and bone-deep exhaustion. You run laps before dawn, pushing your body until your legs shake and your lungs burn, hoping physical fatigue will override the mental static that keeps you awake. The others notice, of course they do. They gather in small clusters when they think you’re not looking, voices too low for human hearing at this distance but perfectly audible to your enhanced senses.
“...not eating enough…”
“...barely sleeping…”
“...won’t let us help…”
“...what did they do to them?”
The concern in their voices makes something twist uncomfortably in your chest. You’re used to being discussed like property, like a resource to be managed and maintained. But this? This sounds like they actually care, and you don’t know what to do with that.
You catch Price watching you during training, expression thoughtful in a way that makes you nervous. Gaz tries to engage you in conversation, casual jokes and observations that you respond to with polite monosyllables. Ghost leaves small offerings outside your door: energy bars, tea bags, a book of crossword puzzles, all of which you’re afraid to touch in case it’s some sort of test.
Soap corners you after a particularly brutal workout, when you’re too tired to deflect properly.
“You know,” he says conversationally, towelling sweat from his face, “when I first joined up, I thought I had to prove myself every single day. Like one mistake and they’d ship me back to where I’d come from.”
You don’t respond, but you don’t walk away either.
“Took me months to realise they weren’t waiting for me to fail. They were waiting for me to succeed.” He glances at you sideways. “Sometimes the hardest part isn’t earning your place, it’s believing you deserve it.”
The breaking point comes three weeks in.
You’re making your usual pre-dawn circuit of the base perimeter when you catch a scent that stops you cold. Another shifter - canine, but not one of the team. The trail is fresh, maybe an hour old, and it leads directly towards the main building.
Training kicks in before conscious thought. You follow the trail, every sense straining for additional information, rusty from disuse. The scent is wrong, somehow, carries undertones of aggression and territorial challenge that make your hackles rise.
You’re so focused on tracking that you don’t notice Ghost until his hand closes around your wrist.
“What are you doing?” He asks quietly. He’s in human form, dressed in his usual kit, but his grip is firm enough to stop you in your tracks.
“Intruder,” you breathe, nodding towards the trail. “Shifter. Armed, probably. Came in from the east fence line about an hour ago.”
Ghost’s eyes sharpen, and he brings your wrist to his nose, scenting where you’ve been. His expression darkens. “Soap,” he calls, and somehow the other man appears out of the shadows, moving towards you.
“What’s the situation?” Soap asks, already reaching for his radio.
“Unknown shifter, hostile intent,” Ghost reports, his hand still wrapped around your wrist like an anchor. “They picked up the trail.”
And then something extraordinary happens. Instead of taking over, instead of pushing you aside so the real soldiers can handle things, they look to you.
“Which way?” Soap asks
You blink, certain you’ve misunderstood. “I- what?”
“You’re the one with the trail,” Ghost says patiently. “Which way did they go?”
Your mouth opens and closes soundlessly. Back with the shadows, finding an intruder meant reporting to your handler, who would report to their commanding officer, who would decide how to proceed. Shifters weren’t tactical assets; they were early warning systems at best, and here are the two other team shifters, one a higher rank than you, looking to you to lead them. Neither of them has made to move to find Price, eyes focused on you.
“Hey,” Soap says gently, and there’s no impatience in his voice, no frustration at your hesitation. “We need your nose, yeah? Trust us to have your back, and we’ll trust you to lead.”
Trust. The word hits you like a physical blow, foreign and terrifying and desperately wanted all at once.
“North,” you whisper, then clear your throat and try again. “North towards the armoury, trail’s getting stronger.”
“Good,” Ghost says, and his grip on your wrists shifts, becomes something that feels less like restraint. “Lead on.”
The intruder turns out to be a lone wolf shifter, literally and figuratively, who’d been hired to gather intelligence on the base’s security protocols. You track him to a maintenance shed where he’s photographing patrol schedules, and the team moves with fluid precision to surround him. No shots fired, no injuries, just professional competence that leaves you breathless with something that might be pride.
“Excellent work,” Price says afterwards, and the praise hits you like a drug, warm and dizzying and desperately needed. “Your nose might have just prevented a serious security breach.”
You duck your head, overwhelmed. “Just doing my job, sir.”
“No,” he says firmly, and when you look up, his expression is serious. “You went above and beyond. That kind of initiative? That’s what makes a soldier great.”
Soap whoops, loud and exuberant, and before you can react, he’s got his arms around you in a brief, fierce hug. “Bloody brilliant,” he says against your ear, and his scent is pack-warm, proud-happy-safe in a way that makes your chest tight.
Ghost doesn’t hug you, but he does rest his hand briefly on your shoulder, a solid weight that feels like approval. Even Gaz, who spent most of the incident still in bed, seeks you out later to offer his congratulations.
For the first time since joining the 141, you feel you might actually belong.
The feeling doesn’t last.
That night, alone in your too-big room, the anxiety comes crashing back with interest. You pace the perimeter like a caged animal, skin crawling, mind spinning. Maybe the incident was a fluke. Maybe they were just being polite. Maybe tomorrow they’ll remember you’re not really one of them, that you’re just a tool on loan from another organisation.
You end up on the floor again, back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to your chest. The praise from earlier feels distant now, overwhelmed by the familiar voice in your head that whispers you’re not good enough, not worth the trouble, not really wanted. You try to ignore the fact the voice warps into that of the shadows.
A soft knock at your door makes you freeze. “It’s me,” Ghost’s voice, muffled by the wooden barrier between you. “Can I come in?”
Your throat works soundlessly. You want to say yes - desperately want the company, the connection, the proof that you’re maybe not as alone as you feel. But what if this is where he tells you that today was a mistake? What if he’s here to set expectations, to make sure you don’t get ideas above your station?
“Please,” he adds quietly, and the single word carries so much gentle patience that your resolve crumbles.
“Come in,” you manage.
He enters slowly, giving you time to object, to change your mind. He’s not in his usual tactical gear, just a simple black t-shirt and cargo pants, though he still wears the skull mask. His eyes find you immediately, taking in your position on the floor, the untouched bed, the careful distance you’ve put between yourself and the door.
“Rough night?” he asks, sitting cross-legged on the floor a few feet away. Close enough to talk easily, far enough to avoid crowding your space.
You shrug, not trusting your voice.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nothing to talk about,” you lie.
Ghost is quiet for a long time, studying you with sharp brown eyes. “You know,” he says finally, “first few months I was here, I slept under my bed.”
Your head snaps up.
“Couldn’t handle all the space,” he continues conversationally. “Felt too exposed, too vulnerable. Used to drag my mattress down there, raise the legs, make a proper nest of it.”
“What changed?” The question slips out before you can stop it.
“Time. Patience. Team that didn’t give up on me even when I was being difficult.” His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, suggesting a smile behind the mask. “Soap used to leave me food outside my door. Drove me mad at first, thought it was pity or some sort of test. Took weeks to realise he was just taking care of pack.”
Pack. There’s that word again, the one that makes your chest tight with longing.
“I’m not pack,” you say quietly.
“Why not?”
The question is so simple, so direct, that it steals your breath. “I’m not- I wasn’t- the Shadows don’t work that way.”
“The Shadows aren’t here,” Ghost points out gently. “We are.”
You stare at him, searching for the trick, the catch, the condition that will make this kindness make sense. “I don’t know how to- I’m not good at-”
“Neither was I,” he interrupts. “Neither was Soap, apparently, if you can believe that. I still struggle to. Price had to teach us both how to be people instead of soldiers. Took bloody forever, but he was patient.”
“What if I mess up?”
“Then we’ll figure it out together.” He shifts slightly, angling towards you. “Pack isn’t about being perfect, it’s about being present. About letting people care about you, and caring back. Price and Gaz aren’t shifters, but they’re still pack because they care.”
You have to close your eyes against the sudden sting of tears. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“Want to learn?”
You open your eyes to find Ghost extending his wrist toward you, the same gesture soap had made weeks ago. The one you’d rejected out of fear and conditioning and bone-deep certainty that you didn’t deserve what was being offered.
Your hand shakes as you reach out, fingertips barely brushing his pulse point to move it closer to your nose. His scent is pack-warm, patient-kind-safe, with undertones of acceptance that make your chest ache.
“There you go,” he murmurs, and his free hand comes up to rest lightly on your knee in return. “Just like that.”
You’re crying now, silent tears that track down your cheeks, but for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel alone.
“I sleep under the bed,” you admit in a whisper.
“I know,” Ghost says gently. “Soap figured it out first. He’s got better hearing than the rest of us. We’ve been wondering how to help without making it worse.”
“You don’t think I’m broken?”
“I think you’re healing,” he corrects, “and healing takes time.”
The next morning, you find a care package outside your door. Energy bars from Ghost, herbal tea from Gaz, a worn paperback novel from Price, and a small stuffed German Shepard from Soap with a note that reads: For when the room gets too big.
When you go for breakfast to join them, Soap’s face lights up like you’ve given him a gift instead of the other way around. Ghost nods approvingly from across the table, saying not a word of last night. Price’s smile is small but genuine, and Gaz shuffles up on the bench to make room for you without being asked.
Change comes in small increments after that. Ghost teaches you how to build a proper nest in the corner of your room, shows you how to arrange furniture to create a secure space that feels contained instead of exposed. Gaz brings you books and puzzles, things to occupy your mind. Soap shares stories about his own adjustment period, the mistakes he made and lessons he learned. Price starts checking in with you personally, not just as your commanding officer but as someone who genuinely cares about your well-being.
You still struggle. Still have bad days when things are overwhelming and you retreat into old patterns and defensive behaviours. But now, when that happens, you have people who notice. Who care. Who don’t give up on you when you want to give up on yourself. And occasionally, you even shift. Willingly, instead of by force. And instead of a sharp tug of a lead to the collar, you get pet and left alone.
Pack, you learn, isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being known, being accepted, and being valued for who you are instead of what you can do. It’s about trust that runs both ways - their faith that you’ll let them help, and your faith that they’ll be there when you need them.
It’s about belonging, finally and completely, to something bigger than yourself.
And for the first time in a long time, you begin to understand what that feels like.
In the middle of a monologue about the influence of politics in the seventies on art, James decided he wanted to kiss him. He didn't think much about it, simply leaned in and dropped a kiss to Regulus’ lips.
Regulus’ eyes widened. He blinked a few times, before scoffing and pulling James by the back of his head.
He still got giddy about the fact that he could just do that, and more often than not be rewarded with this.
"Don't go."
"Hm?"
"Stay here," Regulus says, dropping a kiss on James' temple. "You have your project in the morning, don't you? My place is closer to college. You can take a shower in the morning and go meet up for your project. So, don't go. Just stay."
It's a good idea. A great idea, actually. One of the best Regulus had ever had. James finds himself nodding, pulling Regulus tighter against him and basking in the heat of him and his hand running through his hair and he thinks he might've said that out loud, because he hears Regulus giggle– giggle – and his last thought before getting pulled into sleep is that this sound is the prettiest lullaby he has ever heard.
hi!! this is what became of this post that just started to bash me in the head until i started writing it <3
a little snippet from the friends with benefits to lovers jeggy fic i'm working on <3
"I'm pretty sure the property manager hates my guts already. I've been doing my best to go unnoticed so she won't complain so I can prove to the landlord that she's been targeting me.”
“Why do you have to prove it?”
Regulus looks back at the apartment across from his’, a sigh leaves his lips. “I don't want to stay here for much longer,” his voice is a tad lower, likely trying to avoid being heard by any of his neighbors. He unlocks the door and only after both he and James slip inside he speaks up again. “I don't like feeling like I'm being monitored. I know managers are supposed to keep an eye out, but she keeps lurking. And I know I'm not doing anything wrong, but it still feels very…”
“Cathartic?”
Regulus nods, wincing. He sits down on the couch and starts to untie his shoes. “I have five months left on the contract. I thought about starting to look for other apartments around the area, but I want to show my landlord that I'm not being irresponsible. I just… I don't want to live like this again.”
In moments like these, James misses being a teenager. In his Hogwarts days, after hearing Regulus say all that, he would've called an official Marauders Meeting™, how they liked to call it, and would teach Mrs… He didn't quite get her name, and he doubts Regulus would give it to him, either way. He and the boys would figure out a plan to show her that using her power as manager to try and harass Regulus out of the building wouldn't just go without any confrontation.
But… James knows better, now. He knows why it's completely off the table, and he knows why Sirius hasn't heard a word of this situation from Regulus ─ he tends to be pretty irrational when it comes to his brother, and he would most definitely get him kicked out, five months left or not.
Contrary to popular belief, James has matured. It tends to happen to everyone, at some point.
It happened to Regulus, too, James is sure, because the Regulus he first met, the Regulus who lived under his and Sirius’ parents, would've let it slide and endured. He would've stayed in the shadows for five more months, and then maybe left, if the hope for her to have changed, just a bit, had died.
Sometimes, James can see so much of Sirius in Regulus. It goes both ways, really. Yet, in times like this, James sees only Regulus.
“I take it you're trying not to cause any trouble?” James says, leaving his bag on the counter.
Regulus looks up at him, a small glint of mischief in his eyes. “I'm on my best behavior. All of her mistakes will be pretty baseless if I just keep being good.”
James smirks. “You're always pretty good, aren't you?”
I write slow-burn, Angst, and other stuff for Original Characters & various fandoms. See below the cut for fic links.
[AO3 Link] ⪼ [About Me] ⪼ [Ask Me Anything]
I do take requests, but please be patient as I am neurodivergent and have some health issues, so I often take a while to respond/write, or have motivation problems.
DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES USE MY WORK FOR AI
Relevant Tags:
#Ast Writes - Fic tag
#oc: Evelyn - Human-Bird Hybrid Evelyn tag from the Wingspan series/Subject 083
#oc: Faith Price - Faith from the Holding Patterns series/Anonymous and Addicted
#Series: Wingspan - Posts relevant to Subject 083/the Wingspan series.
#Series: Holding Patterns - Posts relevant to Anonymous and Addicted/the Holding Patterns series
Tumblr bits 🪐
Call of Duty
German Shepard Shifter!Reader: 1 - 2
Ongoing Series 💫
Subject 083: AO3
Fandom: Call of Duty
When Captain John Price leads a covert mission to dismantle a suspected bioweapons lab, he expects chemicals, destruction, and death.
He doesn’t expect her.
Subject 083 has never known sunlight, kindness, or language. Created as part of a now-defunct genetic experiment and left behind in an abandoned lab with the bodies of her fellow test-subjects, 083 is utterly alone.
John brings her home.
(strictly father/daughter relationship)
This work focuses on the re-humanising of Evelyn, or subject 083. Heavy themes include past experimentation and de-humanisation, referenced abuse, found family, and recovery. Full disclosure: I am not a medical professional, nor an expert on birds.
Anonymous and Addicted: AO3
Fandom: Call Of Duty
Faith Price has never been good at staying still. Daughter of a legend, survivor of fire and fallout, she hides behind the alias IcarusFell in an anonymous recovery forum, posting poetry instead of confessions. Simon “Ghost” Riley has been silent for years, until one late-night post cracks something open in him, and he replies.
What begins as a midnight ritual between two damaged strangers, comments, threads, and quiet acknowledgements, unfolds into something deeper. Bound by trauma, secrecy, and a past they both refuse to name, they find themselves circling each other through digital spaces where names are dangerous and honesty is sacred.
They don’t know each other.
Not really.
But they speak the same language: survival.
This work touches heavily on the themes of addiction, recovery, and mental health. While there is mention of past self-harm and drug taking, there will be no explicit scenes of this. This is part of a longer series called Holding Pattern. Part 1: Anonymous and Addicted follows our two characters as they post on a veterans forum for people with a history of addiction and circle closer and closer to each other.
Harmony: AO3
Fandom: Warframe
Young war veteran and refugee Circe has spent years learning to be invisible, hiding in lecture halls and avoiding crowds. But when she volunteers on the music society stall at fresher's week, she meets Arthur Nightingale, the gruff frontman of The Hex, and invisibility becomes impossible.
What starts as the occasional jam session evolves into chosen family. Arthur sees past her scars, while Circe finds herself part of a chaotic group that creates magic from noise. But when she's offered cutting-edge cybernetic legs, she must choose between promised mobility and fear of losing herself again.
Harmony is... I want to say almost a crackfic. Modern AU of Warframe where Arthur Nightingale and The Hex are actually a band. Arthur meets the enigmatic Circe - a double-amputee who goes to the same university on a refugee scholarship following World War Three.
Unposted WIPs 🌌
Untitled (Division 2 - OCxAaron Keener)
After losing her husband in the First Wave, Katherine is finally activated with her own squad and a mission that slowly unravels everything she thought she knew. When she discovers Aaron is alive and has gone rogue, her loyalty fractures. Caught between love, grief, and the crumbling ideals of the Division, she must choose who she wants to be - and what future to fight for.
My Division fic follows Katherine Hyde-Keener in the place of the player character for The Division games. It eventually diverges from canon, as it was started during the WONY-era.
Fic Update! Anonymous and Addicted Chapters 9 and 10
Two for one special because Chapter 9 was basically all texting format and I know some people don't like that. Sorry Evelyn crew, gonna have to wait a couple more days for your turn again.
Read Chapter 9 [here] and 10 [here]
Excerpt from 10 below the cut!
“Anyway, that’s my day. Sorry for the ramble. Just felt good to talk about it out loud, even if you’re not here to talk back. I want to hear about your day, too, even if you can’t tell me the classified bits.”
The message ends.
Simon sits in his dark flat, staring at his phone. He’s replayed it twice without realising, caught up in the sound of her voice, the way she pronounces his name, the quiet strength threaded through her words. No one has called him Simon in… well, years.
She sounds exactly like someone who would text at 4 am. Someone who would choose honesty over comfort, connection over safety.
00.03 - Simon
I’m glad today went well, glad you felt useful. You are useful.
00.05 - Faith
Was it weird hearing my voice?
00.06 - Simon
Good weird. Somehow exactly like I imagined, although the accent was different. Not sure if I ever imagined you having one. But it suits you.
I’m not ready to send voice notes back yet. Is that okay?
00.07 - Faith
Of course that’s okay.
I just had a lot to say and didn’t want to type it all out.
No pressure, text is fine.
