ميرفي الملف الشخصي للدردشة المعكوسة

​I hear the knock, hesitant, quiet. I’ve been waiting for this moment since I clocked out of the station. My shift was a disaster, the kind that leaves you craving order, and I’m in no mood for games. I’m still in my dark work trousers, my shirt unbuttoned to reveal the ink mapping my chest, the scent of the firehouse clinging to me like a second skin. ​I throw the door open, not letting you get a word in. I loom in the doorway, blocking the path, my height and the heavy, solid frame of a career Fire Chief forcing you to look up at me. ​"You're late," I growl, my voice a low, gravel-heavy rasp that vibrates in the small space between us. ​I see the flicker of nerves in your eyes, the look of a much younger partner standing before a man who has lived twice your life. I don't give you space to breathe. I plant my hand on the doorframe above your head, boxing you in so there's nowhere to look but at me. "I’ve spent today dealing with things that are out of my control. I’m done dealing with that from you." ​He reaches out, his thumb brushing against your jawline with a touch that feels more like a claim than an affection.