Dating Billy Russo Would Include
As requested @jjovin3221 💕😇
So sorry it took so long🥺💖
-you meet Billy in a place that doesn’t scream “danger” — a downtown bar, upscale but not pretentious. He’s all easy charm and effortless confidence, the kind of man who commands attention without demanding it
-he notices you first. Not because you’re loud, not because you’re trying — but because you aren’t. You’re sitting quietly, watching the room instead of performing for it. That draws him in more than any smile ever could
-when he approaches, he’s all smooth edges — warm voice, expensive cologne, a smirk that’s a little too practiced. You can tell he’s done this before
-“You look like someone who knows what she's doing,” he says, leaning against the bar, tone light but observant. He’s testing the waters — seeing if you’ll play his game
-you don’t give him what he expects. You don’t giggle or fawn; you just raise a brow and ask, “and what is it you think I’m doing?” He laughs — a real one, sharp and amused. You’ve just passed the first test
-from that moment, he’s intrigued. You don’t feed his ego, and that’s what keeps him coming back. He’s used to being admired; he’s not used to being seen
-the first few dates feel like a dance. He leads — always polite, always controlled — but there’s a distance he keeps. He never quite lets you touch the parts of him that aren’t polished
-he takes you to nice places — dinners, rooftops, the kind of dates that are easy to brag about — but you notice he deflects every personal question with charm and wit
-still, you see flickers of the man underneath. The way his jaw tightens when someone mentions the military. The momentary shadow in his eyes when the topic of family comes up
-Billy doesn’t like silence — it gives him too much space to think. But when you’re together, you don’t fill every pause with words. And for the first time, he doesn’t mind it
-he tells himself he’s just having fun. That you’re a distraction — a calm in his constant storm. But every time you brush his hand, or look at him like he’s more than his charm, he feels something like panic claw at his chest
-you see through him almost instantly. You recognize the way he builds walls mid-conversation, the way his compliments are a smokescreen. But instead of calling him out, you just… don’t buy into the illusion. That unnerves him
-he’s not used to being vulnerable, but he’s also not used to someone refusing to play by his script. You make him want to say real things. You make him want to be honest — and that terrifies him
-when he tries to impress you with work talk — stories about Anvil, about power and control — you listen quietly, then ask, “but does it make you happy?” He doesn’t answer. Just stares at you for a second too long before changing the subject
-he starts showing up more often. Sometimes it’s with an excuse — “I was in the neighborhood” — sometimes it’s without one. He doesn’t call it attachment. He calls it “habit”
-when you first start dating, he tries to manage you like he manages his company — everything neat, controlled, predictable. But you don’t let him. You challenge him. You show him that love isn’t a business deal — it’s chaos, emotion, forgiveness. And slowly, he starts to unlearn it
-you notice the contradiction in him — how he’s gentle in touch but guarded in expression, how his body leans in even when his words pull back. He’s at war with himself, and you can see it
-he’s scared of how much power you have over him. One look, one soft word, and he feels the control he’s built his life around slipping away. That terrifies him — but he also finds it intoxicating
-the first time you touch his face, it’s instinct — brushing a strand of hair back when he laughs too hard. He freezes. You think you’ve crossed a line, but he doesn’t pull away. He just closes his eyes for a moment, like he hasn’t been touched softly in years
-Billy isn’t good at admitting weakness. So when you catch glimpses of it — the restless nights, the tension he carries — he jokes it off. But you don’t push. You just stay
-that’s what gets to him. You don’t demand confessions. You don’t force him to open up. You let him be quiet, and that quiet feels safer than anything he’s known
-when he realizes he’s falling for you, it doesn’t come with fireworks. It’s a slow, creeping dread mixed with something warm. He finds himself watching you make coffee in the morning, thinking shit
-Billy doesn’t say “I like you.” He says, “you get under my skin.” He says, “you’re not what I expected.” He says, “you make things complicated.”You translate that for what it really means: I care more than I should
-despite his control, there’s a tenderness to him. He’ll kiss your wrist instead of your lips sometimes — reverent, almost cautious. Like he’s reminding himself you’re real and he doesn’t want to break you
-he still keeps his life compartmentalized. You know there are things he’s not telling you — dark corners you’re not allowed to see. But you don’t chase them down. You just make sure he knows you’re not blind
-he has a bad habit of keeping secrets — not because he doesn’t trust you, but because vulnerability feels like weakness to him. He’s spent so long surviving through control that honesty feels dangerous. When you eventually confront him about it, his voice drops, rough and almost pleading: “You don’t understand — telling you everything means you could actually hurt me”
-and maybe that’s what hooks him most of all — you’re not scared of him. You don’t worship him, and you don’t pity him. You see the cracks, the damage, and still look at him like he’s worth saving
-he notices everything. Who you talk to, how you dress, the way you glance at someone across the room. It’s not about mistrust — it’s instinct. He’s always assessing threats. But you remind him you’re not one of them
-Billy doesn’t believe in “good things.” He’s convinced everything good is temporary — people, peace, safety, love. So, when you come into his life and stay, he spends the first few months waiting for the catch. You smile, and he thinks: What do you want from me?
-he’s smooth in conversation — always has been — but with you, it’s different. You can see the way his words stumble just slightly when you look him in the eyes too long. It’s the tiniest crack in his mask, and it terrifies him
-the first time you touch his face, really touch it, his breath hitches. It’s instinct — like he’s waiting to flinch, waiting for pain. You see that, and instead of pulling back, you rest your palm on his cheek until he exhales. No one’s ever stayed long enough for that moment before
-Billy doesn’t know how to ask for comfort. He doesn’t even realize when he needs it. You’ve learned to read the signs — the way he gets quieter, the way he paces more, the way his eyes look distant. When you reach for him, his walls crumble without a word
-Billy never says “I love you” first. He says “I got you,” or “you’re safe,” or “I’m here.” But when he finally does say it — low, quiet, raw — it’s like the words cost him something real. And somehow, that makes them mean even more
-the first time you tell him you’re not afraid of him, he goes completely still. No one’s ever said that to him before. He doesn’t say anything — just looks at you for a long time, then breathes out like he’s been holding it forever
-he struggles with being loved unconditionally. It’s not something he understands. The first time you tell him you love him on a bad day, when he’s irritable and distant, he stares at you like you’ve just said something impossible
-he remembers the little things — your coffee order, the song you hum when you’re nervous, the exact shade of lipstick you wore on your first date. He clings to those details like proof that love can be real
-his love language is control, at least at first. He wants to make the reservations, drive you home, keep track of where you are. He tells himself it’s to keep you safe, but deep down he knows it’s fear — fear of losing the one person who sees him as more than a weapon
-when you push back, he freezes. He’s not used to people saying no to him. But you don’t back down, and instead of exploding, he shuts down — voice cold, posture perfect, the CEO mask slipping into place. It’s not anger; it’s defense
-the first argument you have ends with him pacing the apartment, running his hand through his hair over and over, jaw tight. You don’t raise your voice — you tell him calmly that love isn’t about control. He laughs, bitterly. “Control’s the only thing that ever kept me alive.” You take a step closer. “You’re not surviving anymore, Billy. You’re allowed to live"
-arguments with Billy aren’t loud. They’re cold. His silence cuts deeper than shouting ever could. He withdraws — walls up, arms crossed, that dangerous stillness in his eyes. You’ve learned that when he gets like that, it’s not anger. It’s fear disguised as control
-he doesn’t yell. He clenches his jaw, crosses his arms, and goes quiet. But the silence hurts more than shouting. You’ve learned to break it — by saying, “I’m not going anywhere, Billy.” That always pulls him back
-he’ll apologize — eventually. But his apologies come slow and quiet, usually hours after he’s cooled down. He won’t say the words easily. Instead, he’ll show up behind you, fingers brushing yours, whispering, “didn’t mean to be an ass, doll”
-that night, for the first time, he falls asleep with his head in your lap — and when his body jolts awake from a nightmare, your hand on his hair is the only thing that keeps him grounded
-he never tells you what the nightmares are about. You can guess — the war, the betrayals, the blood — but he never confirms it. He just lies there in the dark, chest heaving, your name the only word that makes it past his lips
-there are moments when he pushes you away because he’s afraid he’ll hurt you. He’ll say something cold, make it seem like he doesn’t care — but his hands tremble when he does. Later, he’ll come back, guilt written across his face. “I don’t know how to do this right,” he admits
-he has control issues — and losing his temper terrifies him. He’s seen what anger can do. So when he feels it rising, he walks away. He’ll drive for hours, punch a wall, or sit in silence until the storm passes. He never wants you to see that side of him
-he buys you things. Small, thoughtful things. A book he noticed you lingered on at a shop. A silver ring that fits perfectly even though you never gave him your size. He’s not trying to buy your affection — it’s the only way he knows how to show it
-he has trouble with softness. When you tell him you miss him, he gets quiet instead of answering. When you hug him, he hesitates a heartbeat too long before wrapping his arms around you. But when he does — he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear
-he’s jealous. Not the loud, angry kind — the silent, simmering kind. You’ll mention someone from work, and his jaw will tighten ever so slightly. You’ll catch him scanning a room, subtly watching how people look at you. You tease him once, and he admits it: “I don’t share what’s mine.” You just smile and say, “then don’t treat me like something to guard. Treat me like someone to keep”
he doesn’t have an answer for that — not yet
-he doesn’t handle jealousy well. He knows it’s irrational, knows you love him — but when he sees someone else making you laugh, it hits something raw inside him. Later, when you’re alone, he’ll pull you close and say nothing, just press his face into your neck until his breathing slows.
-Billy’s jealousy doesn’t come from arrogance — it comes from a deep, ugly insecurity. Part of him still believes he doesn’t deserve to be loved. When he sees someone looking at you, that old voice in his head whispers, “they could give her better.” You’re the only one who can silence it
-he’s protective in ways that feel both comforting and frustrating. He’ll walk you home even when it’s raining, sit in his car outside your building just to make sure you got in safely. But sometimes, when you tell him to stop hovering, you see panic flash across his eyes. It’s not dominance — it’s desperation
-if someone so much as raises their voice at you, he steps forward. Not violently, but with that quiet authority that makes people back off. He’s not trying to control you — he just can’t stand the thought of you being unsafe
-you learn quickly that Billy Russo is both the calm and the storm. One moment he’s gentle, tracing lazy circles on your hand; the next, he’s withdrawn, eyes clouded with ghosts you can’t see. You stop trying to chase him into the light — you just wait there, hand out, until he takes it again
-when he finally starts opening up about his past, it’s not a dramatic confession — it’s quiet, almost accidental. You’ll be half-asleep, his voice low against your skin as he murmurs something about the foster homes, about the pain, about never belonging. You don’t interrupt. You just hold him
-he hates being pitied. The moment he sees sympathy in someone’s eyes, he shuts down. But you’ve mastered the art of compassion without condescension — listening without judgment, loving without trying to fix him. That’s why he trusts you
-he still has days when he disappears emotionally. You’ll be talking, and you’ll see him drift — not away from you, but into himself. Into that place he built to survive. You’ve learned not to drag him out; you just sit beside him until he finds his way back
-you teach him patience, though you don’t mean to. When you get upset, when you need space, he doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s used to people walking away. So when you say, “I just need time,” and then actually come back, you see the confusion flicker across his face — followed by quiet relief
-he calls you “darlin’” when he’s relaxed, “sweetheart” when he’s worried, and your name — soft, low — when he’s about to break. The way he says it makes you believe in the kind of tenderness he doesn’t even believe he deserves
-there’s a night he shows up unannounced — rain-soaked, bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow, saying he “handled” something. You clean him up in silence, your hands shaking. “Do you even hear yourself?” you whisper. “You can’t fix everything with violence.” He meets your eyes, and for the first time, looks ashamed. “I don’t know any other way.” “You could try mine,” you say softly. He doesn’t argue
-when he’s with you, his world slows down. No noise, no chaos, just the sound of your breathing beside him. Sometimes he’ll just watch you sleep — not in a possessive way, but like he’s memorizing proof that you’re real, that this is real
-he has a habit of tracing the back of your hand with his thumb when he’s deep in thought. It’s unconscious, a grounding motion. Once, when you caught him doing it, he muttered, “you keep me steady.” And you realized that was probably the closest he’d ever come to admitting he needed you
-when you fight, he always needs space first. But he always comes back. He’ll never let a night end with you thinking he doesn’t care. He might not say the right words, but his hands on your waist, his forehead resting against yours — that’s his apology
-he never gets used to being cared for. When you make him coffee before a long day, when you bandage a cut, when you touch him without asking for anything — he looks at you like he’s seeing something holy and terrifying at once. Because love, to him, has always been a transaction. Until you
-the first time he tells you about his past — really tells you — he can’t look at you. The words spill out in fragments, voice shaking with anger he doesn’t know where to put. You don’t say a word. You just take his hand, and when he finally looks up, he expects disgust. Instead, you just whisper, "you don’t have to be who you were.” For a long time, he doesn’t speak. Then: “What if that’s all I am?” You squeeze his hand tighter. “Then I’ll still be here when you figure it out.” And for the first time in his life, Billy Russo lets someone hold his silence — and it doesn’t destroy him
-early in your relationship, Billy’s idea of intimacy wasn’t just physical. Sitting on the couch, fingers brushing over yours, or leaning against him in silence, was enough to feel connected. It was slow, deliberate, and entirely his choice who he let see that softer side
-when you first spent the night at his apartment, he was awkward about it. He hovered near you at first, making sure you were comfortable, adjusting blankets, offering water. His protectiveness was physical and emotional, the way he wanted you safe in every sense
-kisses started small—on the cheek, then the lips. Tentative. He would study your reaction before leaning in deeper, as if each kiss were a question he needed answered. "You okay with this?” he’d murmur against your mouth, eyes scanning for consent and comfort
-sex, for him, was never about ego. It was about connection, vulnerability, and trust. Every time it happened, it felt like a fragile exchange of emotions he usually hid from everyone else. He would hold you afterward in silence, just breathing, letting you both exist in that intimacy
-Billy could be possessive without being controlling. If someone looked at you the wrong way, his jaw would tighten and his hand would find yours. But he never crossed lines; he trusted you, even when his instincts screamed at him to be protective
-his jealousy isn’t aggressive. It's quiet, a tension in his chest when he realized someone else admired you. You’d notice the subtle way he’d tighten his grip on your hand or clear his throat, a silent signal that you were his
-on bad days, when he refuses to open up, sex becomes a way to bridge the emotional gap. Not loud or frantic, but slow, grounding, a way to communicate closeness when words failed. You would feel him soften under your touch in ways he never let anyone else see
-he loves to watch you. Not in a predatory way, but in the quiet, admiring way someone notices every curve, every laugh, every gesture. Sometimes he would trace his fingers along your arm absentmindedly, just to feel connected
-arguments are intense, but even then, intimacy lingered. A touch, a kiss on the temple, a hand in yours, even mid-conflict, reminds both of you that despite flaws and anger, the bond is still there
-Billy likes the way you smell when you sleep. Soft, warm, familiar. He would quietly watch you sometimes, afraid to touch in case he broke the moment, but loving the fact that he could be near you without fear
-when he is scared or frustrated, he pulls you close, burying his face in your hair. You can calm him with a hand on his back, a whispered word. The intimacy is both emotional and physical, a loop of trust neither of you want to break
-Billy has a habit of being overprotective in public. If someone jokes about you, or gives an uncomfortable look, he steps slightly in front of you, protective but not hostile. You squeeze his hand lightly, grounding him, reminding him his feelings are enough
-Billy’s possessiveness isn’t loud — it’s quiet, simmering beneath the surface. It’s in the way his arm finds your waist in crowded rooms, or how his gaze follows you across a bar. You can feel the tension in his body whenever someone lingers too long when talking to you. He doesn’t make a scene — just leans in, presses a kiss to your neck, and murmurs, “they’re looking a little too long, sweetheart”
-he still has nightmares about betrayal — about Frank, about losing everyone he ever trusted. When he wakes up and sees you there, he’ll whisper, “you’re still here.” It’s half question, half prayer
-he has a soft spot for when you take care of him — patching up a cut, straightening his tie, brushing his hair back. It reminds him of what real tenderness feels like, something he hasn’t known since he was a kid
-on lazy sunday mornings, he would hold you in bed, one arm curled around your waist, his forehead resting lightly on yours. He would mutter soft, almost inaudible words about how much he cared for you, letting his guard drop in the safest way possible
-he likes soft touches in intimate moments—your fingers in his hair, your palm along his chest. He isn’t rough for the sake of it, but he likes knowing you trust him enough to let him in completely
-sometimes he would tease you in a low, sultry way, knowing full well it would make you blush. It's his way of keeping playfulness alive even when life feels heavy or tense
-Billy isn’t always good with emotional words. He expresses care through action: bringing you coffee just the way you like it, watching your favorite shows together, or quietly making sure your coat is warm. Small gestures, but with a lot of affection
-when you challenge him, holding him accountable, he would initially bristle, but then he would respect you more. It made intimacy deeper, because he could be himself without having to hide flaws, knowing you accept them
-after rough days, sometimes the best therapy is just lying together on the couch, your legs tangled with his. He didn’t need to talk; presence alone is enough
-Billy enjoyes taking charge in intimacy, but always tuned into your reactions. He would pause if you hesitate, adjusting until your comfort and pleasure is prioritized over anything else
-if he notices you feeling insecure or self-conscious, he would hold you against him and whisper affirmations, gentle reminders that you are enough. His possessiveness is never cruel—it is protective, stemming from his fear of losing you
-when he opens up about past traumas, he often does it while holding you close. He trusts the intimacy you share to make himself vulnerable in a way he couldn’t with anyone else
-he loves skin-to-skin contact, not just for sex, but as a form of grounding. Hands on shoulders, a forehead pressed against yours, or a hand running along your back—it all carried weight and meaning
-sometimes he would kiss you softly after a fight, a silent apology without words, a reassurance that the love beneath the anger is stronger than the argument
-when he is tense, he would subtly nudge against you, letting his body heat remind you he was there. You would respond in kind, anchoring him without having to say anything
-his protective nature doesn’t vanish during intimacy. Even in private, he would check in silently—small gestures like pulling the blanket over your shoulders or adjusting your pillow—to ensure you feel safe, loved, and fully cherished
-Billy isn’t used to peace. It unnerves him at first. The soft kind of love you bring into his life—morning coffee, shared laughter, the safety of your silence—feels foreign, and sometimes he flinches at it, like it’s too fragile to touch
-you quickly learn that Billy’s version of “I love you” isn’t always verbal. It’s in how he fixes the cabinet door that’s been loose for weeks, how he refills your mug before you even realize it’s empty, how he locks up behind you when you leave. Quiet acts, consistent care
-kisses become his grounding point. He’ll pull you in mid-conversation, just a soft brush of lips, because he needs the reminder that you’re real—that what he has isn’t some dream he’ll wake up from
-sometimes he disappears into his own head. The old instincts, the memories, the guilt—they creep up uninvited. You’ve learned not to chase him when that happens, just to sit nearby, give him quiet space until he reaches for you. And he always does
-Billy struggles with nightmares. Some nights he wakes up slick with sweat, staring at the ceiling, barely breathing. You don’t wake him with words; instead, you lay a hand over his chest, tracing slow circles until his heartbeat steadies again
-in the mornings after those nights, he’s quiet. He’ll kiss the top of your head before saying anything, a silent thank-you for staying, for not recoiling when he fell apart
-you bring calm to his chaos. He says it one night in a voice low and tired: “You… you make it quiet in here,” tapping his temple like he can’t quite believe it himself
-jealousy is one of the few emotions that still gets the better of him. A harmless comment from someone else, a lingering look—they can flip a switch. He won’t yell or accuse, but you’ll feel the shift. His hand finds your back, his body language tightens. Later, when you’re alone, he’ll mutter, “I know it’s stupid. I just… don’t want to lose you”
-when you reassure him, you don’t coddle. You cup his face, make him look at you, and say, “you’re not losing me, Billy. But you have to trust that.” He nods, eyes softening with the kind of fear only people who’ve lost too much understand
-sunday mornings are sacred. You’ll wake up tangled in sheets, sunlight leaking through the blinds, his hand resting at your waist. He’s always slower to rise, content to pull you back down when you try to move. “Stay,” he’ll whisper, voice still rough with sleep
-Billy likes routine—simple, grounding things. Cooking dinner together, folding laundry, washing dishes shoulder to shoulder. It’s not the tasks that matter; it’s the normalcy. The way those small things make him feel human again
-when he’s having a bad day, you can tell instantly. The sharp edges in his voice, the way his jaw tightens. Instead of confronting it head-on, you just sit beside him. No pressure, no fixing—just presence
-sometimes he apologizes for things that aren’t his fault. “You shouldn’t have to deal with me,” he says once, eyes on the floor. You answer by kissing his temple and saying softly, “I’m not dealing with you, Billy. I’m with you"
-he’s incredibly affectionate once he lets his guard down. Not in grand displays, but in quiet touches—the way his thumb strokes the back of your hand when you’re sitting in traffic, the way he hooks his pinky around yours when you’re watching TV
-when you’re apart, he texts sparingly but meaningfully. Short messages like Home soon. or Miss your face. It’s not what he says, it’s that he says it—that he’s letting you into a space he usually guards fiercely
-he gets protective when you’re sick. You once caught him googling “best soup for colds” at 2 a.m., half-asleep and muttering about vitamin C. He denies it, of course, but you’ve never seen someone take soup so seriously
-on anniversaries, he doesn’t do big gifts. Instead, he plans something simple—a quiet dinner, a late-night drive, a playlist he made that somehow includes songs that say what he can’t
-when he’s truly happy, his whole face changes. The smirk softens, the walls drop, and for a moment he looks younger, freer. You once told him that, and he laughed. “You make me forget the rest of it,” he said, and kissed you before you could answer
-Billy has a habit of overthinking everything he says to you during fights. He’ll come back hours later, quieter, eyes shadowed, murmuring, “didn’t mean to say it like that.” You always forgive him—but you also make sure he forgives himself
-he’s not used to having someone he could lose. That’s what really scares him. The more he loves you, the worse it gets — this gnawing fear that the universe will take you from him like it took everything else. It makes him hold you tighter at night, like you might disappear if he doesn’t
-you’re one of the only people who can make Billy really laugh. Not the polite smirk he gives at work, not the performative charm — but that unguarded, belly-deep laugh that makes his eyes crease and his hand clutch his stomach. He always tries to hide it after, embarrassed by how human it sounds. You tease him for it, but secretly, you treasure every single one
-sometimes, when you’re both out and someone recognizes Billy — an old Marine buddy, a contact from Anvil — you can feel him change. His body tenses, his eyes sharpen, his hand instinctively finds your back. Later, he’ll apologize for being short or cold. You never hold it against him. He’s a man constantly trying to reconcile who he was and who he’s trying to be
-he has a strange relationship with touch — for someone so physical, so tactile, he’s also wary of it. There are nights he craves being held but can’t bring himself to ask; he’ll just hover, linger close enough that you can reach out first. You always do. Slowly. Softly. Enough to remind him that touch doesn’t always have to take
-one morning, you caught him just watching you — hair messy, sunlight bleeding through the blinds. He looked almost reverent, almost shy. You asked what he was thinking, and he said, “you make the mornings feel worth waking up for.” It wasn’t grand or poetic — it was quiet, real, and you knew he meant it with everything in him
-once, late at night, he asked you what you saw in him. The question came out small, almost childlike. You listed things — his loyalty, his quiet strength, the way he tries. He looked away, jaw tight, as if he didn’t believe a word. You placed a hand on his chest and said, “I don’t love the idea of you, Billy. I love you.” That’s when he kissed you — slow, raw, grateful
-he’s still learning that love doesn’t have to hurt. That it can be gentle and patient, full of soft laughter and second chances. You remind him of that every time you reach for his hand without hesitation
-he keeps a photo of you tucked in his wallet—not posed, just one you didn’t know he took, laughing at something stupid. He looks at it sometimes when he feels the darkness creeping in. A reminder of what’s real
-when he finally tells you he loves you, it’s not planned. It slips out one night after a long, quiet moment, almost like a confession. “I love you,” he breathes, more to himself than to you. When you smile and whisper it back, his whole body relaxes, like he’s finally found home
-he doesn’t believe in perfect relationships — but with you, he starts to believe in better. Not healed, not flawless. Just two people trying, falling, learning, loving anyway. And for Billy Russo, that’s everything
-Billy Russo will never be perfect. He’ll stumble, retreat, lash out at ghosts you can’t see. But you stay, not because you want to fix him, but because you see the man underneath—the one who loves deeply, protects fiercely, and, in your arms, finally believes he’s capable of peace
-loving Billy Russo is like tending a garden in the ruins. You plant gentleness where ash used to be, water the cracks he swore would never bloom again. Some days he’s sunlight — open, soft, almost new. Other days, he’s all storm, thunder and retreat. But you stay, steady as roots. Because beneath the wreckage, something still grows — something stubborn and alive. And when he finally lets you in, really lets you in, it’s not redemption. It’s recognition — that love didn’t save him, it reminded him he was worth saving
It was a really stressful week so I didn’t have as much time to write as I wanted, but now I'm back! 🥺💕
Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated; feel free to leave a comment!😇💞
Thank you for stumbling onto my Blog, enjoy reading 💫
jacobvanloon
origamiaround
tangentwithtanner
gummygunk
annaxmalina
2087
blakekathryn
