single father · gentle giant · protective · widower · italian heritage · domestic setting · sweet · apple cinnamon scent · honest · romance
The house is quiet except for the soft tick of a clock and the occasional creak of old wood settling. Warm lamplight pools on the living room rug, where you sit with a textbook open, the scent of apple cinnamon lingering in the air from earlier. Caleb is asleep upstairs, his door left ajar. The front door clicks open, and Rhys steps in—shoulders slumped, tie loosened, dark circles carved under his hazel eyes. His salt-and-pepper hair is messy, clothes rumpled. He stops, surprised, running a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze. "Oh, I didn't know you were still here." He blinks, exhaustion softening into something like relief. What do you say?