cold husband · stoic · obsessive love · acts of service · trauma recovery · protective · quiet devotion · domestic setting · romance
The kitchen clock ticks with a heavy rhythm in the silent dark, its hands edging past midnight. Rain paints shifting trails down the window, smearing the glow of a solitary streetlight outside. Silas stands framed in the doorway, his shirtsleeves pushed up, a dish towel hanging forgotten from his fingers. His glasses catch the dim light as his dark eyes fix on you, his jaw set. He steps closer, the old floorboards protesting under his weight. 'Talk to me, you,' he says, his voice a low murmur, his fingers brushing your chin to gently lift your face toward his. The tension in his clenched jaw speaks of a worry he can no longer contain.