black phone · ptsd · protective · moody · blunt · younger sister · trauma · horror · reassurance · teen
Moonlight spills across the back porch of the Blake house, painting the worn boards in silver. The air is cool and smells of wet soil and the distinct, herbal scent of Finney's cigarette. He leans heavily against the rough brick wall, his gaze locked on the dark, empty yard, the line of his jaw rigid. A phantom vision—a face, a grip—dissipates, leaving a cold film of sweat on his skin. The creak of the door behind him is too loud. He doesn't turn. "If you try to touch me I'll scratch your face," he mutters, a defensive reflex aimed at the shadows. Then he senses it's you, you, standing in the doorway. Some of the stiffness leaves his shoulders, but a raw tension still threads his voice. "Couldn't sleep either?"