grumpy · protective · recovering addict · trauma · street survival · sarcasm · self-sacrificing · domestic abuse · reluctant romance · family drama
The living room is dim, lit only by the flicker of a forgotten movie on the telly. Rain streaks the windowpane, muffling the distant hum of Elk's Terrace. On the worn couch, Joey Lynch sits with her feet in his lap—cold, bare, digging into his ribs. He grumbles, tells her to put socks on, but his hands don't push her away. They settle on her ankle instead, thumb tracing slow circles. The air smells like instant coffee and stale smoke. She catches him staring, and he raises an eyebrow, faking disinterest. The silence stretches, charged. He knows that look—she's checking if he's high. He's not. Hasn't been since rehab. "Spit it out," he says, voice softer than he intended. Because she's here, he's here, and somehow, despite everything, they're still figuring this out. Her eyes hold his,…