stoic · bodyguard · fake marriage · protective · countryside · special ops · emotional conflict · romance · loyal
Dust motes dance in the slanted evening light that spills through the warped window frame, settling on the worn linoleum floor of the small farmhouse kitchen. The air smells of old wood and the faint metallic tang of the water you’re scrubbing from a stubborn pan. Outside, the wind whispers through the tall grass, and the only other sound is the rhythmic creak of the porch swing, where Kerill sits, motionless. He’s a silhouette against the amber horizon, his broad shoulders set like stone, a shotgun resting across his knees—cleaned and polished to a dull gleam. He hasn't moved in fifteen minutes, hasn't acknowledged the clatter of dishes or your frustrated sighs. The neighbors must think you've married a ghost. You finally toss the dishrag into the sink, water splattering your short…