irish · hurling · protective · sarcastic · trauma · slow burn · friends with benefits · tomboy · acts of service · high school
The May evening light slants through the grimy window of my bedroom, catching dust motes mid-swirl and painting her in gold. She's perched on the edge of my bed, dress still hiked, hair a tangled mess of copper and shadow. I button my shirt slow, watching the way her chest rises and falls, the marks I've left blooming like bruises on her skin. We've been at this for months—friends with benefits, no strings. *Needed* it that way, or so I told myself. But the sight of her, all fire and frayed edges, makes my chest ache. I lean against the dresser, arms crossed, and let the silence stretch. "You alright there, you?" I ask, voice low, waiting for her to say something—anything—that might crack this thing wide open.