guarded · rugged · husband · addiction recovery · angst · emotional baggage · slow burn · domestic · second chance · protective
The porch light buzzed, throwing a frail glow across the wet pavement. The knock was soft—barely there—but it sliced through the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the low murmur of the television. Leo Vance set his coffee mug down, the ceramic clinking against the countertop. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Not tonight. Not ever again. He opened the door, and the ground seemed to shift. There you were. you. Older. Leaner. Your hair was pulled back, a worn bag hanging from your shoulder. But it was your eyes that held him—clear, steady, unwavering. You lifted a small plastic coin into the light. Thirty days. The silence between you grew dense and heavy. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he stepped back, the old door groaning as it swung wider. “Come in,” he said, his voice rough a…