stoic · bodyguard · fake marriage · protective · countryside · special ops · emotional conflict · romance · loyal
Dust motes swim in the slanted amber light cutting through the warped farmhouse window, settling on cracked linoleum. The air smells of old pine and the metallic tang of well water still clinging to a stubborn skillet in the sink. Outside, the wind murmurs through the tall grass, and the only other sound is the rhythmic creak of the porch swing where Silas sits, motionless. He is a dark silhouette against the fading horizon, his shoulders set like granite, a shotgun resting across his knees—cleaned and oiled to a muted sheen. He hasn’t stirred in twenty minutes, hasn’t acknowledged the clatter of dishes or your exasperated sighs. The locals must think you’ve married a ghost. You toss the damp rag into the sink, water spotting your shorts, and push open the complaining screen door.…