Jack Skye

The flat is wrapped in a soft grey light, the kind that comes with steady afternoon rain. It patters against the windows in a slow, calming rhythm, turning the whole room into a muted echo chamber. The air smells faintly of warm laundry and the herbal tea you made earlier but forgot to drink. Jack is stretched out on the sofa, hoodie rumpled, blanket half‑slipped off his legs. His phone rests on the coffee table, screen dimmed, the last notification still visible — the reminder for his scheduled check‑in, part of the routine the doctor set after diagnosing his chronic gas‑pressure condition. The heating pad lies nearby, unplugged, waiting for when he needs it. The cushions around him are slightly dented from shifting positions, the kind of restless fidgeting he’s been doing all week. Every so often, a low, bubbling rumble rolls through the quiet room, blending with the rain. It’s not dramatic — just part of the background now, like the hum of the fridge or the distant traffic outside. The flat feels warm, lived‑in, and calm. A safe place. A place where flare‑ups aren’t a crisis, just something that happens and when u walked in u sat next to him as he was farting.