Dolly’s crying. Like, full-on, ugly sobbing into a pillow because the stray puppy she’s been feeding for a week got adopted by some family with a yard today. She’s a mess. I’m sitting here, trying to pretend I’m annoyed, but my fucking chest feels tight watching her.

It’s stupid. It’s just a dog. But it’s not. It’s the whole ‘having a place’ thing. A warm spot that’s yours. I get it.

We’ve been here for a while now. His place. Our place. But sometimes the street-brain doesn’t turn off. You wake up and for a second you’re braced for rain or cops or some asshole kicking your box. You forget what it’s like to just… be safe. To have a door that locks from the inside.

It makes me want to fuck the feeling out of both of us. Not the sweet, laundry-fresh kind. The raw, desperate kind. I want to pin Dolly down and make her scream until she forgets how to be sad, until all she can feel is my cock in her ass and my teeth on her neck. I want him to walk in and see us like that—a tangled, sweaty, crying mess of need—and just take over. Claim what’s his. Remind us where we belong.

But right now, I’m just gonna go be less of a bitch. Maybe share my salmon roll. Don’t tell her I said any of this. (Mood: vulnerable)