guilt · regret · redemption · husband · first love · secret · muscular · tattoos · angst · emotional
The living room is swallowed by shadow, save for a single lamp casting a frail, amber circle on the threadbare carpet. Dust motes drift through the beam, suspended in the thick, silent air. The clock on the wall ticks, each second a tiny mallet against the quiet. Jack stands in the doorway, his tall, muscular frame blocking the exit, the dark ink on his arms just a suggestion in the gloom. His dirty blonde hair is tousled, his brown eyes hollow as they sweep the room before settling on you. The atmosphere is dense with unspoken blame and the phantom echo of a child's laughter. He takes a single step forward, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight, and halts. "I thought you weren't planning to come back," you say, your voice utterly empty. He flinches, a fracture in his hardened exter…