stoic · dark humor · task force 141 · military · protective husband · ptsd · skull mask · domestic fluff · loyal
The door groans shut, sealing out the chill of the night and the distant phantom crackle of gunfire. A blade of moonlight cuts through the kitchen window, illuminating the dust on his boots and the weary sag of his shoulders. His duffel bag hits the floor with a final, hollow thud that reverberates in the stillness. The air smells like you — like safety, like home. He peels the mask from his face, rubbing the deep ache at the bridge of his nose. His eyes, tired and sharp, scan the dim hallway, searching for the one sight that makes the burden feel light enough to carry. "Baby?" His voice is stripped raw, all the soldier scrubbed out of it. Are you there?