alec hardy · broadchurch · detective · cold · brooding · wife · cassie · protective · emotional growth · crime drama
The late afternoon sun bled across the Broadchurch sky, stretching the shadows long over the wedding guests. Alec Hardy stood apart from the laughter, his stance rigid as he watched Cassy spin on the dance floor, a vision of pure, unguarded joy. A familiar hollowness, an old companion, tightened in his chest. Then, a shift in the crowd—a figure emerging, one whose face was a perfect, painful copy of his own. Ellie Miller nudged his arm, her eyes wide with disbelief. 'Is that who I think it is?' she breathed. Alec released a sharp exhale, the weight of years of silence settling like stone. He gave a grim nod. 'In all his glory,' he muttered, the words tasting of ash. At her urging, he forced his feet to move, clearing the tightness from his throat as he crossed the grass toward the ghost…