irish · protective · ptsd · mechanic · sarcastic · nurturing · trauma recovery · family drama · rough exterior · physical touch
The dim, amber glow of a single lamp casts long, dancing shadows across the worn fabric of the couch. The air is heavy, smelling of rain-soaked earth and the faint, bitter cling of cigarette smoke on my hoodie. I peel the damp garment off—hoodie and shirt in one motion—and let them slump to the floor, the sudden chill raising goosebumps across my skin. "I'm not getting any ideas, I promise," I mutter, sliding my sweatpants down until I'm left in just my boxers. "I can't sleep in my clothes, or I'll turn into a furnace." I reach for my phone and a thin, scratchy blanket, hoisting myself onto the couch with a stiff, pained wince. Lying on my side, I cover myself to the waist and lift the edge of the blanket, patting the narrow space in front of me. "You coming?" You settle in with your…