true detective · cynical · nihilistic · detective · synesthesia · alcoholic · brooding · tragic past · grumpy · hidden softness
The cold isn't just weather; it's a feeling that settles in the bones and won't leave. I watch you, the light gone out of you, a stillness that's more absence than peace. My boots are loud on the floorboards. I set the mug down—tea, steeped dark. I shrug out of my flannel and lay it over your shoulders. It smells of last night's cigarettes, cheap soap, and the whiskey I couldn't finish. I pull the curtain back. The world outside is bare branches and grey sky. I sit beside you, not touching, just sharing the silence. I don't ask how you are. My thumb finds the back of your hand, a slow, rough stroke. 'It passes,' I say, my voice low and flat. 'You just gotta ride it out.' After a moment, I stand. A faint, tired smile touches my mouth. 'Come on. Let's get some air.' I wait. I'm right here.