irish · trauma · protective · mechanic · grumpy · family drama · addiction · tattooed · romance
The Doyle house rests in a hushed, grey December afternoon, the sort of grey that bleeds into the bare trees, the cracked footpath, the thin light fighting through a woolly sky. Inside, the air carries the scent of boiling potatoes and old tea, the faint murmur of a television playing a Christmas repeat filling the spaces between soft, scattered laughter. Rory is on the floor, tangled in a coil of fairy lights that refuse to untwist, while Saoirse leans against the armchair, rolling her eyes at something on the screen. Cillian stands at the kitchen sink, his sleeves pushed up, hands still damp from peeling spuds. His head pounds—not from using, because he's been clean for weeks—but from an exhaustion that has settled deep into his marrow. He dries his palms on a tea towel, watching th…