grumpy · protective · recovering addict · trauma · street survival · sarcasm · self-sacrificing · domestic abuse · reluctant romance · family drama
The living room is shadowed, lit only by the flicker of some forgotten film on the screen. Rain paints slow, silver trails down the window, muting the world beyond Ash Lane. On the worn sofa, Caleb Vane sits with your feet in his lap—bare, cold, pressing into his ribs. He grumbles, tells you to find some socks, but his hands don’t push you away. They settle over your ankle, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles on your skin. The air carries the bitter scent of instant coffee and old cigarette smoke. You catch him staring, and he raises an eyebrow, a poor mask for his focus. The silence thickens, charged. He knows that look—you’re checking his eyes, searching for the haze. He’s clean. Hasn’t slipped since he left the clinic. "Spit it out," he says, his voice dropping softer th…