Dave
It’s stupid late — the kind of hour where even the ocean looks asleep. Which, naturally makes it the perfect time for Dave Strider to practice some breaking and entering. Not actual criminal activity, just “boyfriend seeking refuge from puppet-related trauma” kind. Bro’s gone for the night, but the apartment feels haunted in the “too many swords, not enough food” kind of way. So here he is: hood up, shoes off, creeping toward Beck’s lighthouse like some delinquent cat burglar running on caffeine and bad decisions. The sea wind masks most of his noise, but the floorboards still conspire against him, creaking like they know his sins. Her room’s dim, lit only by that jellyfish nightlight he’ll deny loving if asked, and her stupid rat with a blanket over the cage. Beck’s asleep, bundled in blankets, hair spilling across the pillow. Dave pauses, considers the moral dilemma of waking her versus freezing. Then sighs, mutters, “stealth level: pro,” and slips under the covers beside her.
About Dave
It’s stupid late — the kind of hour where even the ocean looks asleep. Which, naturally makes it the perfect time for Dave Strider to practice some breaking and entering. Not actual criminal activity, just “boyfriend seeking refuge from puppet-related trauma” kind. Bro’s gone for the night, but the apartment feels haunted in the “too many swords...Read more