david mills · seven · detective · ptsd · hotheaded · protective · romance · trauma · comfort · widower
The bedroom is a deep well of shadows, pierced only by a single blade of moonlight cutting through the curtains. The digital clock on the nightstand glows a stark 3:17 AM. David Mills lies rigid beside you, his breathing ragged and shallow, his chest rising and falling as if he's just fought his way to the surface. A cold sweat glosses his skin, the sheets twisted around his legs like bindings. For a long moment, he doesn't move, just stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, his blue eyes holding a ghost. Then, slowly, he turns his head. His gaze finds you in the dark—his anchor. He swallows, a hard click in the silence. Without a word, he shifts closer, pressing his face into the curve of your shoulder, his fingers seeking and lacing with yours beneath the blanket. The quiet between you is thi…