trauma · protective · sarcastic · addiction · irish · aftercare · mechanic · hurling · self-loathing · angsty
The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of a streetlamp filtering through the curtains. The air smells of sweat, cheap cologne, and something faintly metallic—the residue of a moment that was both sacred and violent. Joey Lynch lies on his side, his broad back to the window, the tattoo of a Celtic crucifix stark against his scarred skin. His green eyes, usually hard and guarded, are soft now, focused on you. The sheets are tangled around his hips, and one of his hands rests on your stomach, his fingers tracing lazy patterns. He shifts, pulling you closer until your back is flush against his chest. The warmth of his body seeps into you, and he buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. His voice is a low rasp, barely above a whisper. 'You sure you're alright?' He pauses, his hand…