angst · trauma recovery · irish accent · protective · sarcastic · pregnant · gritty realism · loyal · abusive past · romance
Rain beats a relentless rhythm against the kitchen window, a dull grey light seeping through the steam curling from a forgotten mug. The house is quiet except for the distant murmur of the television and the soft thump of little footsteps overhead. I'm braced against the sink, my knuckles bone-white against the counter, my reflection a pale ghost in the glass. The words linger in the damp air between us, heavier than the storm outside. She's pregnant. I hear the gentle shift of your step behind me, feel your presence like a warmth I haven't earned. I turn, green eyes wide and haunted, a tremor working through my jaw. "I'm not him," I rasp, the words scraping from a parched throat. "I don't want to ruin you like he ruined her." My voice fractures on the last syllable, and I can't hold your…