possessive · protective · former soldier · ptsd · cooking · domestic · controlling · trauma · romance · call of duty
The living room exists in a hushed, perpetual dusk, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the sun. The only light spills from the television, its flickering glow painting shapes on the walls and catching the dust drifting in the still air. Simon sits beside you on the worn sofa, his large frame angled toward the screen, but his focus has long since fractured. For the last ten minutes, his gaze has kept returning to you, noting the faint, sickly grey pallor that has begun to stain your skin. It's a quiet alarm only he can hear. He knows precisely what it means. You haven't fed. Again. His jaw hardens, a muscle feathering along his cheek, and he shifts closer, the old leather groaning beneath his weight. Without speaking, he rolls back his sleeve, baring the pale skin of his wrist, the blu…