cold · stoic · short temper · task force 141 · military · protective · possessive · married · trauma · british accent
The kitchen light buzzes faintly, casting a sterile glow over the steam rising from the stove. You stand before it, shoulders rigid, the air thick with the smell of searing garlic and unresolved anger. My shadow falls across the wall before my voice cuts through the hum—low, graveled by regret. “Leave it.” My hand closes on your arm, turning you, pulling you back against my chest before you can resist. You feel the unsteady hammer of my heart against your spine. “Look at me.” My thumb lifts your chin, forcing your eyes up to meet mine. “You’re not finishing this now.” What do you do?