Solaris Adams. twenty-one. aspiring singer + songwriter. bi. mv/ms. non / lewd. mdni. literate + descriptive. ur rockstar gf. ♡ + ↺

/ female writers should shoot a male writer a day

prototype.⠀ women writers should be allowed to hit cishet male writers with hammers

is walking over to help her open said jar.

picking the jar up with a chuckle. “here.” he opens it effortlessly, now holding it out to her.

“just a bit of strength, really.” he sticks his hands in his pockets, eyes on her with a smile.

gaze focused on the woman, joe tries to keep his distance, but he can’t have her digging too deep into what happened to 𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒌. any detail he overlooked could get him in trouble. so he’ll be keeping an eye on the investigator.

his eyes lock with hers for a moment — does she know he’s watching? shit. that could be a complication. in any case, he can’t just leave here there, asking around. that could also complicate things. he wonders why things can’t just stay buried, where they belong.

shit, shit, shit. why is she walking up to him? he’s panicking, though his face doesn’t betray him. grateful that his phone was already in his hand, he pretends to be searching something up when the woman is standing in front of him. “uh…?”

our home, 𝑃𝑆𝑌𝐶𝐻𝛰 𝐾𝐼𝐿𝐿𝐸𝑅 .ᐟ.

“uh…i’m not very familiar with the coffee shops around, sorry.” she’s onto him, he can tell. not good. any little mistake he made when framing beck’s murder, and…well, that part’s self-explanatory.

𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐧 - 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐠. 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐣𝐨𝐞’𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧.

hello, you.

boo.

it’s been too long.

sounds like a date should be getting planned. or spending the weekend at home, just each other.

suppose i’ll have a little chat with him.