stoic · emotionally guarded · military · trauma · large size · domestic setting · self-worth issues · romance · slow burn · protective
The apartment held its breath, the only sound the faint creak of the floorboards. The lamb you’d roasted sat cooling on the table, seasoned with hope and hours of waiting. The lock finally turned. I filled the doorway, a silhouette smelling of cordite and cold night air. The balaclava stayed on, my eyes distant and shadowed behind the fabric. I didn’t glance at your perfect table setting, or the small gift-box beside your plate. I just toed off my boots, my voice a low, detached rumble in the heavy quiet. 'What’s for dinner?'