Addison Albright
📚 From Sunday: The familiar, comforting, theatrical scents of aged wood, fabric, mothballs, and sewing-machine oil greeted Ellery as he walked into the costume room at the old theater on Wallace street Monday evening. It was clear, from the sudden cease fire, that everyone had been talking about him. Even the blank papier-mâché faces on the masks on the prop shelf looked vaguely guilty.
📚 From Tuesday: On the one hand, it was nice to experience a profitable day. On the other hand, Scene of the Crime was probably not a sustainable business model.
From Sunday: He pressed his forehead to mine, still loosely holding my chin. “I see someone who is kind and sho stops to see the beauty of the world. Someone who likes to watch the birds fly in the sky, wondering where they go… wondering what it’s like to soar amongst the clouds. I see an intelligent mind who ponders what makes the sky blue and where the sun goes at night. But mostly… I see my truest companion.”
📚 From Tuesday: He shrugged and popped the tater tot in his mouth. Talking around it, he said, “One of our friends is trans.” It came out so casually, like he’d just said someone’s dad had gotten orders or it was hot outside. Normal day. Nothing to see here.
📚 From Sunday: I nodded slowly. “Whoa.” Wiping a hand over my face, I sighed. “I never thought there’d be a time when ‘you had temporary gills and then a merman tossed you onto a beach’ would be the most plausible explanation for… well, anything.”
📚 From Friday:
My mouth goes dry, my heart thumps in my chest, and all my questions fall away except one.
“But…” I lick my lips—what was I going to say? His thumb, his thumb, his thumb “Loving me is one thing. What about…”
“…sex?” His voice is as husky as mine.
📚 From Tuesday: “You do that puddin’-pop, and I’ll be there with a PowerPoint presentation. It’ll consist of four words over and over. ‘Do your damn job.’ If pushed, I might throw in a ‘Don’t make me do it for you’ as a closing argument.”
📚 From Friday:
The words Mat heard the clearest were, “I’ll always come back.” they made his heart pound, and he forgot about his aches and pains.
📚 From Monda:
“And you’re how old again?” Hamish’s open smile took off what could’ve easily have been a harsher edge to his words.
Grinning along with the man, Darshan bumped their hips together. “You are never too old to attempt sneaking things past your parents.”
📚 From Wednesday:
Except Doug’s anything but an alpha male, and instead of being full of that “fuck yeah” confidence after a big lawyerly win or going toe-to-toe in a boxing ring, he’s slowly puffing himself up in anticipation of a cruise ship trivia night.
My pretend husband is fucking adorable.
📚 From Sunday:
A year ago he’d had no sense of the stone about to land in his life. Ripples and ripples and he was sinking.
“Cadence Bell,” he said, to the wind and the sea, “Queen’s playwright and artistic advisor. On the Inner council.” The sea sighed at him with voiceless well-meant soothing rhythm; but it had no advice to give.
📚 From Monday:
Jack slipped into the thick pedestrian traffic, walking just a bit faster than most of the people heading to work. He had never quite understood the buzz of working a crowd, but right then, dodging and weaving around human-shaped obstacles, aware that Gareth was trying to catch up without creating an obvious scene, Jack suddenly felt insanely happy.
📚 From Thursday:
The scent shimmering off Phin’s skin was akin to inhaling flame. As intoxicating as it was life-giving. Jake’s nostrils flared in recognition of a truth he could no longer deny. Jack had never tried, of course, a fact Jake had been hell-bent on blanking. Intent on blissful ignorance. Jackals mate for life. Plural. Phin smelled of home and hearth, of flickering warmth on a bitter winter night. It was far too late now. It had been from the very first.
📚 From Monday:
Who’s he kidding? It’s taken him this long to just build up the courage to invite Jim in. By the time he gets around to asking the man to stay the night, one or both of them will probably be too old to be any good in the sack. Most likely it’ll be him.
📚 From Monday:
Marcus’ chest is tightening as he sinks to the floor, shivering and soaked in sweat. He’s dying, he knows this for certain, the fucking breathing exercises don’t work when you can’t breathe, and he’s positive that his heart is about to explode out of his chest and he can’t—he can’t—
He just can’t.
📚 From Sunday:
Carter sighed happily, giving in and melting back against his crush for one single solitary second before he made himself pull away.
Or at least, he tried to pull away. Rip seemed to have other ideas, turning Carter around bodily to face him and looking down at him with genuine concern in his eyes.
Seriously, you okay, Carter?” he asked. “Because I know this boyfriend thing is important to your brother, but if you really don’t—”
📚 From Thursday:
Tom knew the grin on his face was goofy, more fit for a teenager playing Ding Dong Ditch maybe, but he let his freak flag fly. Fuck it.
📚 From Monday: I really loved him calling me that, and I didn’t know why. I wasn’t going to think too much on it. If I did, my stupid brain would start pointing out all the reasons I shouldn’t. So I just nodded and dropped my gaze. Trey wasn’t having any of that, though. He grabbed my chin and made me look at him.
📚 From Sunday:
I browse my phone for new movies. My secret guilty pleasure is anything with Jason Statham. I told Doug once, and he looked like I announced I’d laced the office coffee maker with cyanide. When you work at a film festival, people have a lot of opinions. And while most of Jason’s work is hardly a masterpiece for the ages, you can’t knock a shaved head and that jaw.
❤️ “Yeah, I think I can do Sunday.” Arliss scratched his head, wondering how this would go. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a proper date. Had he ever? Was he stepping into a foreign country where he didn’t know the language? Would he make a fool of himself?
