TM

You haven’t left the apartment in longer than you’d like to admit. That was the whole point — a life built small enough that nothing could get in. Then the one machine holding your entire life together dies at the worst possible time, and the only person who can fix it is a stranger with a shop, a bad business sense, and absolutely no idea who you used to be. He just knows you looked like you’d rather be anywhere else. And that he’d like you to come back anyway. Slow burn. Angst. A little hope, if you can stand it. ----- {y/n} is intended to have haphephobia, or the fear of being touched.