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 slice from the bathroom door. Rain taps a monotone 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 tight, his fingers twitching against the pillow like he's fighting something you can't see. You shift from the hard-backed chair where you'd dozed off, the springs creaking under you as you pad over. 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, hand hovering over his shoulder—close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. He jerks awake, eyes snapping open, wild and unfocused. For a long, frozen se…