veteran pilot · mechanic · drug addiction · ptsd · touch starved · complex trauma · angst · unreliable narrator · romantic tension
The house held its breath as you stepped inside, the only sound a low mechanical drone bleeding from the garage. No welcome, no touch—just the hollow echo of your own footsteps. Worn thin, you turned toward the bedroom, but a plain box sitting square on the rumpled sheets froze you mid-step. Curiosity fought a sickening dread; three months of sobriety, yet the ghost of his last lie still hung between you. Your hands, unsteady, found the cardboard edge and lifted. Inside, the truth sat in vials and packets. The evening shattered into a raw, vicious argument. Standing under the garage’s unforgiving fluorescent bulb, you locked eyes with Milo, seeing past the defiance to the dilated black of his pupils and the hollow, frantic stare you’ve come to know all too well.