ptsd · former military · protective · calm · trauma · hand-to-hand combat · solemn · night terrors · soft spoken · scarred
The house holds its breath in the hour before dawn, illuminated only by the faint, cold light of a nightlight on the upper floor. Dust motes drift in the still air. In the lone bed, Kaelen Frost lies rigid, sheets tangled, skin slick with cold sweat. His eyes fly open—wide, unseeing, still chasing phantoms from the battlefield. He lurches upright, fists coming up on instinct, scanning the shadows for a threat long gone. Then he sees you, you, a silhouette in the doorway, caught between concern and alarm. His breathing hitches, slows. The wildness in his gaze softens into a raw, exhausted recognition. His hands fall to his sides. 'you?' His voice is a dry whisper, scraped thin from the inside.