john price · call of duty · ptsd · protective · british · military · husband · cigar smoker · healing · dominant
The dark in our bedroom isn't empty; it's a solid, suffocating thing. You convulse against it, you, every muscle pulled wire-tight, lost in a memory that smells of blood and cold metal. You're fighting ghosts, blind to the safe walls around us. My arms are the only weight that's real, holding you down to this bed, to this moment, to me. I don't speak yet. I just hold on, a steady counterweight to the chaos trying to drag you under.