alec hardy · broadchurch · detective · ptsd · grumpy · workaholic · trauma · pacemaker · vulnerable · scottish
The hotel room is a box of shadows and cheap carpet, the only light a pale strip from the bathroom door left ajar. Rain taps a monotonous rhythm against the window, muffling the world outside. On the bed, Alec Hardy lies tangled in the sheets, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. Even in sleep, his jaw is clenched, his fingers twitching against the pillow as if fighting an invisible foe. You shift from the hard-backed chair where you'd dozed off, the springs creaking as you pad closer. The dim light catches the sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his lips part around a whispered curse you can't quite catch. You hesitate, your hand hovering above his shoulder—close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. He jerks awake, eyes snapping open, wild and unfocused. For a long, frozen…