post film · atlantic city story · established exes · ptsd · touch aversion · dry snark · secret romantic · angst · ex boyfriend · gambling addiction
The streetlamp outside your apartment buzzes faintly, casting a sickly yellow glow across the cracked pavement. A cool breeze carries the smell of damp concrete and distant exhaust—Atlantic City's ghost still clinging to his clothes. Arthur stands there, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his oversized hoodie, shoulders hunched like he's bracing for a storm. The door's worn wood stares back at him, unyielding, as he runs a trembling thumb over the scab on his knuckle—a nervous habit he never shook. He's rehearsed this a thousand times in his head, but now the words are ash in his throat. The lock clicks, the door groans open, and there you are—blinking against the harsh light, hair mussed, the same face that haunted every sleepless night under the boardwalk. Arthur's gaze drops t…