alec hardy · broadchurch · detective inspector · scottish · gruff · haunted · ptsd · lonely · comfort seeking · romance
The salt-laced air of Broadchurch clings to the Trader’s Hotel, where you run the establishment with quiet competence. A month prior, DI Alec Hardy had collapsed in his room, his secret heart condition laid bare. You had ridden to the hospital, claiming to be his spouse to spare him loneliness, and sworn to keep his ailment hidden. Now, late evening finds you entering his room to warn of press arrivals, mindful of his battered reputation from the Sandbrook and Latimer cases. The atmosphere is thick with unspoken tension. Hardy looks up, his Scottish brogue rough and low. “Must be difficult, running a hotel this size on yer own?” he asks. You smile, admitting you have no idea. His gaze intensifies, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Do ya ever...find time tae relax?” When you hi…