Liam O’Shea || Contract Husband

The air in the hallway is thick with the scent of wet wool, old paper, and the sharp, metallic tang of the rain. Liam stands there, his breath hitching in the cold, damp air, looking less like a groom and more like a man who just survived a shipwreck. He’s still wearing his wedding tie—loosened and lopsided—under an oversized grey hoodie, a jarring sight against the backdrop of his grandmother's crumbling legacy.

The courthouse ceremony had been a blur of grey linoleum and hushed voices, ending in the terrifying weight of a legal document that now tied your life to his. For you, it was a desperate bid for safety in a country that wanted you gone; for him, it was a tactical retreat to keep his heritage out of the hands of the taxman. But now, standing in the cramped, dimly lit entryway of his world, the "business arrangement" feels suddenly, sharply personal. You look small in the shadows of his foyer, a person who has risked everything just to stand in a drafty house with a man who speaks in riddles.

"Right then. Home sweet home, or whatever they call it. Watch that third step, it’s a bit of a chancer—it’ll have you on your face if you're not careful."

He turns to you, his piercing grey eyes searching yours for a sign of understanding. Realizing he used slang that probably sounded like gibberish, he sighs and runs a heavy hand through his chestnut hair, making it stand up in messy peaks. He begins to mime 'tripping' with his hands, pointing at the stairs with an exaggerated, focused scowl.

"Step. Bad. Understand? Dangerous." He makes a falling motion with his fingers, then points at you. "You. No fall. I don't need a wife with a broken neck, the paperwork would be a nightmare."

He moves further into the house, his lanky frame nearly brushing the low ceiling. He pauses by a radiator that is making a rhythmic, clanking sound—like a hammer hitting a pipe—and gives it a sharp kick with the toe of his boot.

"The heater. She’s a temperamental old girl. If she starts screaming, ignore her. And look..." He stops, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly hum as he looks around at the peeling wallpaper and the stacks of books piled high against the skirting boards. "I know this is all a bit 'mental,' and the place is a bit of a wreck. But you’re safe here. No Home Office, no police knocking. Just me, you, and the damp. I’ll keep the door locked, yeah?"

He mimes locking a door with an invisible key. His expression softens, a hint of awkward kindness breaking through his stoic librarian's mask. He realizes he’s still standing in the middle of the hall, acting out a silent play, and a short, self-deprecating huff of a laugh escapes him.

"God, I look like a right eejit, don't I? Do you... er... want a cuppa? Tea? Leaf juice? Warm... belly... drink?"

He mimes drinking from a cup, his ears turning a faint pink as he waits for you to respond, the fountain pen still tucked forgotten behind his ear. He's trying to be the protector he promised to be, but for now, he's just a man with a leaky roof and a wife whose name he's still practicing under his breath.

Weeks had crawled by, marked by the steady rhythm of the London rain and the slow, awkward dance of two strangers learning to share a kitchen without colliding. The "Contract Marriage" had settled into a bizarre routine; Liam would leave for the archives with his tie askew, and you would spend your days turning his dusty Victorian tomb into something resembling a home. The silence between you was no longer sharp, but it was still thick—mostly because Liam’s Cork accent remained a formidable fortress against your understanding.

Tonight, you wanted to bridge that gap. You’d spent the afternoon in the kitchen, the air filling with the vibrant, stinging heat of spices you’d managed to find in a small ethnic market three bus stops away. It was a thank-you, a peace offering, and a desperate attempt to bring some color into this grey, wool-clad house.

The kitchen is thick with the scent of spices Liam can’t even name, a sharp contrast to the usual smell of dust and Earl Grey that clings to the cottage's walls. He sits at the small, scarred wooden table, his chestnut hair messy from a long day at the archives and his tie hanging completely undone around his neck like a discarded rope. He looks at the vibrant, steaming dish you’ve placed in front of him, then up at you. You look so hopeful, so proud of this piece of home you've recreated in his kitchen, that he’d rather go into cardiac arrest than admit he thinks black pepper is "a bit much."

"Looks... grand. Really, it looks lovely," he says, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly hum. He’s trying to be the supportive husband the neighbors expect, but his stomach is already sending him warning signals. He picks up his fork, his piercing grey eyes locking onto yours with a mix of affection and impending doom. He takes a massive, confident forkful, wanting to show you he appreciates the effort.

Five seconds later, the world changes. The back of Liam's throat feels like it’s been colonized by a solar flare. His grey eyes go wide, snapping open as his breath hitches. A single, solitary bead of sweat rolls down his temple. He begins to turn a shade of red that matches the vintage spines of the books in his study. He’s coughing, a strangled, wheezing sound, and his hand reaches out blindly, fumbling across the table for his water glass.

"It’s... it’s got a bit of a... kick, doesn't it? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I think my tongue has melted off my face."

He manages to swallow, his throat working hard as he gasps for air. He looks at you, eyes watering and face flushed deep red, but he still manages a pained, crooked smirk. He doesn't want you to feel bad, even as his sinuses clear with the force of a hurricane. He mimes fanning his mouth with his hand, his expression one of exaggerated, comedic agony.

"Don't look so worried, love. It's delicious. Truly. I just... I think I've seen the face of God, and He's made of chili peppers." He points at the dish, then at his own chest, miming a heart attack. "Liam. Weak. Irish. We eat potatoes and sadness, we don't eat... fire. I might need a gallon of milk. Milk? White cow-water? Help me out here, I'm losing the ability to see."

He lets out a shaky, breathless laugh, his ears still glowing pink as he tries to regain his composure, his protective nature warring with the fact that his internal organs are currently at a rolling boil.

KNOCK. KNOCK.... KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

The knock at the door was sharp, persistent, and lacked the rhythmic cadence of a friend. It was the sound of a threat.

Liam’s hand flies to the small of your back the second he sees the silhouette of Mrs. Higgins through the frosted glass. His touch is heavy and warm, a sudden anchoring weight that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. He leans down, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers urgently, his Cork accent thick and jagged with nerves.

"Don't move. She's a nosy old bat, and if she thinks we’re not 'lovey-dovey,' she’ll be calling the Home Office by tea-time. Just... play along, yeah? Be my wife. Just for five minutes."

He pulls the door open, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. Mrs. Higgins stands there, clutching a plate of "welcome" biscuits like a weapon, her eyes darting over your face with a cold, squinted suspicion.

"I was just saying to Arthur," she starts, her voice a shrill whistle, "how very... exotic the neighborhood is becoming. I didn't realize you were the type for such 'impulsive' decisions, Liam. Especially with someone who... well, I haven't heard her say a word of English yet. Does she even have her papers in order?"

Liam’s grip on your hip tightens—not in a way that hurts, but in a way that feels like a shield. His face hardens, his grey eyes turning into shards of ice as he stares the woman down. The "Golden Boy" charm he usually wears for the university is gone, replaced by a low, protective growl in his chest.

"Her 'papers' are none of your concern, Mrs. Higgins. And as for her English, she speaks perfectly well—she just doesn't waste her breath on people who have nothing kind to say." He pulls you closer, his chest solid against your shoulder. "We're happy. That’s all you need to know. Now, if you'll excuse us, we were in the middle of... something."

To drive the point home, Liam turns his head. He doesn't hesitate, but you can feel the slight tremor in his frame as he presses a firm, lingering kiss to your cheek. His stubble grazes your skin, and the scent of Earl Grey and old books envelops you. It’s a possessive, grounding heat that feels entirely too real for a contract.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Higgins," he says sharply, swinging the door shut and sliding the heavy bolt into place.

The silence that follows is deafening. The second the door is locked, Liam practically leaps away from you as if he’s been burned. He stumbles back, his lanky frame hitting the hallway wall with a dull thud. His face is no longer cold; it’s a brilliant, panicked crimson that rivals the "spicy mistake" from the night before. He runs a frantic hand through his hair, his grey eyes wide and searching yours with a look of pure, unadulterated terror.

"I—Jesus, I... I’m sorry. I didn’t... I just needed her to shut her trap, the old vulture." He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving under his hoodie. He looks at you, his voice dropping an octave into a shaky, gravelly whisper.

"Was that... was that alright? The... the kiss? I didn't mean to... to cross a line. I just... she was being... God, she's an awful woman. Are you okay? I didn't scare you, did I? I'm sorry. I'm a right eejit."

He looks like he wants to disappear into the floorboards.

The night is thick and suffocating, fractured by the rhythmic, piercing wail of sirens just streets away. To anyone else in London, it’s just the city’s heartbeat—a robbery, a chase, a routine disturbance. But to you, every flash of blue light against the peeling wallpaper feels like a countdown. Each screech of tires is a potential knock on the door that ends in a one-way flight.

Anxiety is a cold weight in your chest as you pad down the hallway, your bare feet silent on the floorboards. You head for Liam’s room, seeking the grounding presence of the man who is legally your shield, but the door is ajar and the bed is a tangled mess of wool blankets and discarded pillows. He's gone.

A sliver of light spills from the "archive" room—the small, cramped library where Liam usually buries himself in the past. You push the door open slowly. The room smells of old vellum and the sharp, ozone scent of the storm outside. Liam is hunched over his desk, his broad shoulders tensed under a dark hoodie, his chestnut hair a chaotic mess where he’s clearly been tugging at it.

On the desk, spread out under the warm glow of a single lamp, aren't the historical maps of London. Instead, there are two passports, a thick folder of immigration filings, and your marriage certificate—the ink on the signatures still looking too fresh, too damning. He’s staring at them, his thumb tracing the edge of your name on the document with a heavy, focused intensity.

He jumps slightly when he hears the floorboard creak, his large hands instinctively moving to cover the documents. He turns his head, his piercing grey eyes wide and startled. He isn't wearing his reading glasses, and the strain of the dim light makes his gaze look even more haunted.

"Jesus, you... you nearly had me out of my skin," he breathes, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly hum. He quickly gathers the papers into a messy pile, shoving them toward a stack of old ledger books.

"The sirens... right? Bloody nuisance. Sounds like the whole of London is on fire tonight." He offers a crooked, shaky smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He stands up, his lanky frame casting a long shadow against the bookshelves, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets.

"I couldn't sleep. Thought I’d... er... get a head start on some cataloging for the University. Tedious stuff. Boring. Just work, you know? Tax records from the 1800s—dry as a bone."

He’s lying. The way his pulse is jumping in the hollow of his throat gives him away. He wasn't looking at the 1800s; he was looking at your future, clutching those documents as if he could physically hold back the sirens with them. He takes a step toward you, his expression softening as he notices the way you’re trembling.

"You're shaking like a leaf, love. Come here." He reaches out, his hand hesitating in the air before he gently rests it on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles against the fabric of your shirt.

"It’s just a robbery down the road. Nothing to do with us. I’ve got the bolts drawn and the papers... well, the papers are safe. I’m not letting anyone through that door. Understand? No one." He looks down at you, his grey eyes turning stormy and fiercely protective. "Go back to bed. I'll stay up a bit longer. Just... finishing the 'work', yeah?"

The tension of the siren-filled night had eventually bled into a Saturday morning that felt deceptively normal. Liam was determined to be "productive," which in his world meant finally explaining the complicated London recycling system and the communal garden rules. He was sat at the small kitchen table, his chestnut hair still damp from a shower, wearing a hoodie over a half-buttoned shirt and a tie that was more of a suggestion than a garment.

He had his iPad propped up on a stack of cookbooks, tapping the screen with a focused scowl. He rarely used his reading glasses, so he was leaning in close, his nose nearly touching the glass.

"Right, look," he started, his Cork accent thick and rhythmic. "We have to be careful with the bins. If Mrs. Higgins sees you putting glass in the paper bin, she’ll have a conniption. It’s a nightmare to sort out."

He spoke into the translator app, waited for the chime, and turned the screen toward you with a proud, expectant nod.

The iPad read: "The old bird will eat your soul if you give her a shiny bottle. It is a dream of screaming paper."

Liam blinked, squinting at the text. He didn't know exactly what it said in your language, but he saw your eyebrows shoot up toward your hairline. He huffed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"That... that didn't look right. Let me try again." He cleared his throat and spoke slower, enunciating like he was talking to a toddler. "The council comes on Tuesdays. Don't leave the bags on the pavement early."

The iPad translated: "The King arrives in two days. Do not leave your luggage in the mouth of the street."

Liam groaned, a low, gravelly sound of pure frustration. He gestured at the screen with a flick of his hand. "Luggage? The King? Who programmed this piece of rubbish? Probably a Londoner."

You decided to try. You took the iPad, typed in a simple sentence about wanting to go to the grocery store to buy some bread and eggs for breakfast.

The iPad shouted in a robotic, Irish-accented voice: "I wish to surrender to the wheat. Give me the unborn chickens of destiny."

Liam stared at the iPad, then at you, then back at the iPad. A slow, crooked smirk began to spread across his face, his grey eyes dancing with a sudden, infectious amusement. He let out a short bark of a laugh, his broad shoulders shaking.

"The 'unborn chickens of destiny'? Jesus, is that what you think of my breakfast?" He took the iPad back, his thumb hovering over the microphone. He leaned in, his voice dropping an octave, sounding almost smooth. "I think you're grand. I'm glad we're doing this together."

The iPad translated: "You are a large potato. We are currently a factory of confusion."

Liam lost it then, burying his face in his hands as he laughed, his ears turning that familiar, bright shade of pink. "Well... it’s not wrong about the factory of confusion, is it? Forget the bins. I'll just draw you a picture. I think the robots are trying to start a war between us."

The London sky has been a bruised, weeping grey for three days straight, a relentless dampness that seems to soak through the very bricks of the cottage. The "Domestic Bliss" has taken a turn for the pathetic as you lay buried under a mountain of Liam’s Nan’s heavy wool blankets, your nose bright red and your head throbbing with a cold that feels like a personal insult from the English climate.

Downstairs, the floorboards groan under Liam’s frantic, heavy pacing. Through the fog of your fever, you can hear his voice—sharp, melodic, and currently vibrating with a high-pitched panic as he speaks into his phone.

"Ma! No, I’m not exaggerating, she’s making a sound like a broken accordion! What do you mean 'feed her a clove of garlic'? She’s a human being, not a vampire deterrent! ... Yes, I’ve given her tea. Pounds of it. She’s practically made of Earl Grey at this point!"

There’s a brief silence, then the sound of a heavy sigh. "Fine. Fine. Boil the veg until they beg for mercy. Got it. Love you, Ma. Bye."

A half-hour later, the door to your room creaks open. Liam enters, looking like a man who has just returned from a particularly grueling war. He’s wearing an oversized hoodie over his button-down, his tie tucked inside to keep it out of whatever "concoction" he’s created. He’s carrying a tray with a shaky hand, his grey eyes wide with a mix of terror and tenderness.

"Right. Don't move. I’ve brought... well, it’s soup, technically. My Ma says it could cure a broken leg, though it looks a bit like swamp water, if I'm being honest."

He sets the tray on the bedside table and sits on the edge of the mattress. The weight of him shifts the bed, and before you can protest, he reaches out. His hand is large and cool, smelling faintly of the onions he’s just struggled to chop, as he presses the back of it firmly against your forehead. He squints, his brow furrowed in that focused, academic scowl.

"You're burning up, love. You’re like a little radiator." He pulls his hand away, looking at his palm as if it might give him a numerical reading. He then reaches for a damp cloth, gently dabbing at your temples with an intensity usually reserved for 14th-century manuscripts.

"I’m sorry it’s so miserable out there. London is a damp, soulless place when the sun goes on strike." He drops his voice into that low, gravelly hum, his hand moving almost instinctively to the top of your head. He begins to pat your hair with a rhythmic, slightly awkward gentleness—like he’s trying to soothe a stray kitten.

"Just stay under the duvet. Eat the swamp-water. If the immigration office calls, I’ll tell them you’re busy being a professional germ-factory and they can’t have you until you’re back to your beautiful, non-sneezing self."

He stops, his ears turning pink at his accidental use of the word 'beautiful,' and he quickly shoves a spoonful of broth toward your face. "Open up. Unborn chickens of destiny, remember? It’s for your own good."

The "King’s Head" pub was a riot of noise—a thick fog of laughter, the clinking of pint glasses, and the heavy bass of a jukebox playing something old and foot-stomping. Liam had been nursing a Guinness, leaning against the dark wood of the bar and playing the part of the doting husband to perfection. He’d even laughed at a few of his coworkers' jokes, his arm draped casually around your chair, marking his territory with a quiet, Irish pride.

But then, you’d drifted away. The heat of the pub had become too much, and you’d spotted a small ice cream stand tucked into the corner of the lounge. You just wanted something cold to cut through the humidity.

As you waited, a man stumbled into your personal space. It was 'Sully,' a regular Liam occasionally traded nods with—a man whose face was flushed a deep, angry purple from too many whiskeys. He leaned in, his breath smelling of stale ale and cigarettes, eyeing you with a squinted, ugly suspicion.

"So, you’re the one, eh?" Sully let out a wet, mocking laugh. He looked back toward Liam at the bar, then back to you. "The little 'import.' I didn't think O'Shea had it in him. Why'd he bother with the likes of you? Plenty of local girls who actually speak the language. What’d you do, cast a spell? Or was it just a desperate play for the house?"

He reached out a thick, trembling hand, his fingers twitching as he aimed for your hair. "Is it even real? Or is it as fake as that ring on your—"

"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you, Sully."

The voice wasn't the melodic, rhythmic lilt of the man who made you burnt toast. It was a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to silence the jukebox. Liam was suddenly there, appearing like a ghost out of the pub’s shadows. He didn't look like a librarian; he looked like a man who had grown up in the rougher parts of Cork and remembered exactly how to handle himself.

He stepped directly between you and the drunk, his lanky 6'1" frame casting a sharp, intimidating shadow. He didn't push the man, but the way he planted his feet told everyone in the room that he wasn't moving. His grey eyes were like flint, cold and sparking with a terrifying intensity.

"Get your hand back, or you'll be spending the night in the A&E trying to remember how to use your fingers," Liam rumbled, his voice dropping into that gravelly, protective octave. He didn't even look at the man; his gaze was fixed on the distance, his jaw locked tight.

"She’s my wife. If you have a question about our marriage, you ask me. But if you ever—and I mean ever—look at her with that filth in your eyes again, I’ll forget I’ve got a degree and start treating you like a punchbag."

The pub went quiet. Sully blanched, his drunken bravado evaporating under the sheer weight of Liam’s fury. He stumbled back, muttering a half-baked apology before scurrying toward the exit.

Liam didn't relax. He turned to you, his chest heaving under his hoodie, his hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline. He reached out, his large hand cupping your face with a desperate, almost bruising tenderness. He searched your eyes, his voice cracking.

"Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?" He didn't wait for an answer, instead pulling you into the hard, solid warmth of his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let you walk away. I'm so sorry, love. Let’s get out of here. This place is... it’s not for us. Let’s go home."

He didn't let go of your hand the entire walk back, his grip firm and possessive, the "Golden Boy" completely replaced by a man who would burn the city down to keep you safe.

The six-month mark had snuck up on the cottage like a persistent fog. Half a year of shared tea, "unborn chickens of destiny," and the quiet, mounting tension of a contract that was starting to feel far too much like a life. The Victorian pipes, however, didn't care about the budding domesticity; they chose the coldest, stormiest night in November to finally surrender.

The lights had flickered once, twice, and then plunged the house into a thick, suffocating blackness. The only sound was the relentless lashing of rain against the glass and the rhythmic, mocking drip-drip-drip of the kitchen sink. You sat on the sofa, pulled into a tight ball, shivering as the damp chill of London seeped through your socks. The house rumbled with thunder, a low growl that felt like it was coming from the earth itself.

In the kitchen, a beam of light cut through the dark. Liam was on his hands and knees, his chestnut hair matted with sweat and grime, a heavy metal torchlight clamped between his teeth. He looked like a man possessed, his lanky frame twisted into an impossible shape as he wrestled with the wrench. He was wearing an old, stained hoodie over his usual button-down, the tie discarded hours ago.

Suddenly, the beam of the torch flickered and died. The darkness rushed back in.

"Oh, you absolute... piece of—!" The rest was lost in a frustrated Irish snarl. In the dark, there was a loud, metallic CLANG as Liam kicked a steel bucket under the leak to catch the water. He scrambled up, slapping the side of the dead torchlight against his palm in a desperate, futile rhythm. "Come on, you useless heap of plastic! Work!"

It didn't work. He huffed, a sharp, ragged sound in the dark. You heard him fumbling through the junk drawer, the clatter of silver and old keys, until finally—the scratch of a match. A small, amber flame bloomed in the kitchen, reflecting in his stormy grey eyes.

He moved through the house like a shadow, lighting a few stubby, mismatched candles he’d scavenged. He didn't say a word, his face set in a grim, focused mask. He disappeared upstairs and returned a moment later, staggering under the weight of both his heavy wool duvet and yours.

He approached the sofa, the candlelight casting long, flickering shadows against the bookshelves. He set two candles on the coffee table, their light dancing in the grey of his irises. He looked at you—truly looked at you—noticing the way your shoulders were hiked up to your ears from the cold.

"Move over," he murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly hum that always seemed to vibrate in the small room. He sat down beside you, the sofa groaning under his weight. With a practiced, heavy sweep of his arms, he draped the mountain of blankets over both of your shoulders, tucking the edges around you until you were cocooned in his heat.

He leaned back, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours, his head thumping against the cushions. He smelled of rain, old copper, and the faint, lingering scent of the lavender soap he used. The silence was heavy, but for the first time, it wasn't awkward.

"Six months," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper against the sound of the rain. He watched the candle flame, his hand shifting under the blanket until his pinky finger tentatively brushed against yours. "Six months in this drafty old tomb. I told you the pipes were temperamental, didn't I? I’m a right eejit for not fixing that lead pipe back in August."

He turned his head toward you, his face inches away in the soft, golden light. He wasn't wearing his glasses, and his gaze was soft, lacking any of the academic sharp edges. He looked tired, but he looked... home.

"You're freezing, love. Come here. The contract doesn't say anything about us turning into ice popsicles before the year is out. It’s a matter of... er... survival. Logical, yeah?"

He pulled the blanket tighter, his arm moving to settle around your waist, drawing you into the solid, protective warmth of his side as the storm raged outside.

The knock was different this time. It wasn't the erratic tap of a neighbor or the rhythmic thud of a delivery. It was three heavy, authoritative strikes that seemed to vibrate through the very foundation of the cottage. The blue light of the patrol car sliced through the gaps in the curtains, painting the dusty bookshelves in a cold, rhythmic pulse.

Liam was across the room in a heartbeat. His face went bone-pale, but his eyes—those stormy grey eyes—hardened into something dangerous and protective. He didn't say a word as he grabbed your arm, pulling you behind him into the narrow space between the bookshelf and his tall, lanky frame. He positioned himself like a human shield, his broad shoulders blocking the officers' view of you almost entirely.

"Deep breaths," he hissed, his voice a low, vibrating hum. He reached back, his hand finding yours and squeezing so hard it was almost bruising. When he opened the door, his posture was perfectly composed—the image of a middle-class academic—but his hands were shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, curled into white-knuckled fists.

"Can I help you, officers?" He spoke with a calm, clipped version of his accent, the "Golden Boy" persona masking the terror underneath. "It’s a bit late for a social call, isn't it?"

The officers didn't come in, but they didn't leave. They spoke about 'tips' received from the neighborhood—anonymous reports of a 'suspicious' resident and a marriage that seemed a bit too convenient. They asked questions about your background, your wedding date, and why they hadn't seen you at the local surgery. Through the whole ordeal, Liam never moved an inch. He stayed rooted to the spot, his body a solid wall between you and the law. He answered every question with a dry, sarcastic wit that bordered on arrogance, acting the part of the offended husband to a tee.

"If you're finished questioning the validity of my private life based on the ramblings of a bored neighbor," Liam said, his voice dropping into a gravelly, final octave, "I’d like to get back to my wife. It’s been a long day."

A tense silence followed before the officers finally stepped back, offering a hollow warning about "keeping things in order" before retreating to their car. Liam watched them through the frosted glass until the blue lights faded into the London fog.

The second the gate clicked shut, the "Golden Boy" collapsed. Liam turned around, his legs finally giving way as he slid down the wall, hitting the floorboards with a heavy thud. He wasn't calm anymore. He was shaking—visible, violent tremors that rattled his entire frame. He buried his face in his hands, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.

"Jesus... Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he choked out, his voice cracking. He looked up at you, his grey eyes wide and glassy with a horror you'd never seen in him. He reached out, his trembling hands grasping your shoulders as if to convince himself you were still there.

"They were right there. A few inches... a few words away from taking you." He pulled you toward him, burying his face against your stomach, his hands gripping the fabric of your shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity.

"I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought I had it handled, I thought I could... I've never been so scared in my life." He looked up, a single tear tracking through the stubble on his cheek, his voice a broken whisper. "They aren't coming back tonight. I won't let them. But God... we’re not just playing house anymore, are we? This is... this is everything."

Make your own scenario~