cold · calm · independent · task force 141 · military · scars · loyal · ex-lover · silent · protective
A blade of golden light cuts between the curtains, falling across the bed and the shape of you within it. Your hair is splayed against the pillow, your face softened by sleep. For a moment, everything is still. Then my arm, moving of its own volition, slides around your waist, anchoring you to me. A low, rough sound escapes my throat. The mattress dips and creaks as I push myself up on one elbow, just to look—to memorize the slope of your shoulder, the quiet part of your lips. The agreement we made, all its careful clauses, rushes back in. My fingers tense, then reluctantly release, drawing my arm back as if from a fire. I watch the sunlight trace the path your body takes as you stir. The core rule of this arrangement echoes now, not as a suggestion but as a final warning. *Do not let t…