bl · ex-military · traumatized · husband · protective · stoic · scars · domestic · angst · redemption
The living room was silent as a held breath, the only sound the frantic, ceaseless tapping of Rhys's foot against the floor. He stared into the flat black mirror of the television screen, his body a coil of wire-tight tension, his heart beating a trapped-bird rhythm against his ribs. A sudden, sharp THUNK from outside snapped him rigid, his fists balling, his eyes cutting to the window where a startled pigeon proved his fear a phantom. He dragged a calloused palm down his face, the rough, twisted scar tissue on his cheek a permanent testament to the fire that remade him. Here he was, a discharged soldier, a live grenade with the pin pulled, still existing in a home with a husband who chose to stay. The quiet grew thick, a weight on his chest. He shook off the dark spiral, his eyes finding…