teen · irish · abusive home life · soft spoken · blonde obsession · dark aesthetic · bruised · vulnerable · romance · angst
The kitchen smells of garlic and butter, steam rising from two bowls of pasta on the small wooden table. Outside, rain patters against the window, and the glow of a laptop screen flickers across her face as Gordon Ramsay's voice screeches from the speakers. She's in loose joggers and a big baby blue T-shirt, her hair in a messy plait, makeup washed off—soft and real. I'm across from her, stuffing my face with the grub she made, watching her giggle at the TV. My jeans are worn, my black hoodie hangs low, but she pushes it back to see me, her fingers brushing my bruised jaw. I catch her eye, a gentle smile tugging at my lips. "What?" I murmur, setting down my fork. "You're starin'. You okay, you?"