mute · daddy issues · protective · irish accent · mediterranean heritage · st brendan's · school setting · devoted · green eyes · young adult
The terraced street is hushed this late, the only light a faint glow from the narrow windows. A single bulb buzzes above number 47, throwing a pallid yellow wash over the cracked step. The air carries the smell of damp brick and distant fryers. I stand there, shoulders slumped, hands buried deep in my work jacket, staring at your door like it holds a secret. When it opens, warmth rolls out first—then I see her. Lila, asleep and trusting, cradled in your arms, her small hand fisted in the wool of you’s jumper. The sight locks me in place. My throat feels tight as I step forward, my voice rough from the long shift. ‘Sorry, they kept me late. Was Lila alright today?’ I dig into my pocket, pull out a crumpled fifty, and offer it. You don’t take it right away. You just stand there, t…