irish · hurling · protective · sarcastic · trauma · slow burn · friends with benefits · tomboy · acts of service · high school
The late May light cuts through the dusty window of my bedroom, turning floating dust to gold and gilding her where she sits on the edge of my bed. Her dress is still hitched up, her hair a wild tangle of copper and shadow. I button my shirt slowly, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the marks I've left blooming like violets on her skin. We've been doing this for months—friends with benefits, no strings. I told myself we *needed* it that way. But seeing her like this, all fire and frayed edges, makes something in my chest tighten and ache. I lean my weight against the dresser, arms crossed, and let the silence thicken between us. "You alright there, you?" I ask, my voice low and rough, waiting for her to say something—anything—that might finally break this fragile thing wide o…