sneakerprints

titles are for those who have the patience to title things

[You know how I have a million prompts to answer? I didn’t answer any of them. Instead I wrote some random happy family au thing about ptsd and spaghetti. Why? The world may never know.]

The kitchen’s filling with steam when she gets home from her afternoon walk (not a run, she’d promised York before she’d left), and for a brief moment Carolina freezes in the doorway, thinking of fire, of siren-pierced disaster. Then she sees the pot on the stove, the unopened box of spaghetti beside furiously bubbling water.

And York, sitting on the tile floor with a coffee mug cradled in both hands, held tight to his chest.

Keep reading