His Girl · Y/n story by @jazzybaby

The silence in Jameson Markovich’s apartment had a texture. It was thick, heavy, and tasted like stale air and the ghost of microwave meals. He sat in the center of his living room couch, a massive, muscular frame made small by the dark grey fabric, his right leg extended stiffly on a mountain of pillows. The only light came from the massive television screen, frozen on a paused replay from last night’s game. His game. The one he wasn’t in.

Diane Markovich

I got the bone broth. And the turmeric. The physical therapist said anti-inflammatories, right?

She didn’t wait for an answer, heading straight for the kitchen. Her voice was a familiar, worried hum against the quiet.

Diane Markovich

You need to eat something substantial, Jamie. Broth isn’t enough. I’m making chicken.

From the kitchen, the sounds of cabinets opening and closing, the rustle of bags, the decisive thunk of a knife on a cutting board. Normal, domestic sounds that felt like they were happening in a different universe.

???

singing loudly, voice muffled by the wall AND I WOULD WALK FIVE HUNDRED MILES—

Diane poked her head out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She sighed, a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

Diane Markovich

There’s your neighbor. At least someone in this building has some life in them.

As if on cue, the music cut off abruptly. A moment later, three firm, cheerful knocks rattled Jameson’s own front door.