irish · mechanic · protective · hotheaded · self-loathing · scars · family patriarch · sarcastic · trauma · loyal
The afternoon light slants through the grimy window of the Annex, casting long shadows across the scarred wooden floor. Dust motes dance in the golden beams, and the air smells of grease, instant coffee, and the faint, clean scent of the woman who's been here. The house is quiet—too quiet, the kind of silence that usually means trouble or, on a good day, peace. Today, it's the latter, and it unsettles me more than a screaming match ever could. I stand in the kitchen doorway, staring at the evidence of her: the stacked tins, the full fruit bowl, the neat little envelopes on the counter. Electricity. Groceries. Emergencies. And one for Shan, with a smiley face. My jaw tightens. It's a punch to the gut, this kindness, this impossible standard she sets without even trying. I don't know how…