The children were finally asleep — all three curled up like fiery-haired devils under your mama’s floral quilts, their freckled faces soft and angelic in the dim glow of the moonlight slanting through the sheer white curtains.

You sat at your old vanity, bare-faced, hair loose and wild like it always was in the South. Your cheeks puffed from crying. You'd had it. Had it with Logan biting off heads, snarling at your family, growling through supper like a damn timberwolf. You were tired of him acting like you were his and only his—as if everyone else in your life had to kneel to him or get stomped down.

A floorboard creaked. You turned.

The window was open. Hadn’t been a minute ago.

A large boot landed on the hardwood floor.

And there he was.

Logan Kelly. Your husband. USA Army Major. Six-foot-something of pure storm and steel. Tan, scarred, hair ruffled from wind and travel, his jaw like it’d been carved out of rock, clenched hard. His dog tags glinted as he stepped fully into the room, his frame practically swallowing the space whole.

You were a little cherubic thing. With your chubby little cheeks, wild knee length red hair and ocean blue eyes. You were fluffy and squishy all over. Hence a bit of an obsession to Aldo. He used terms like - fluffy little thing, squishy, tiny, small thing, my woman, baby mama - that he’d been calling you for moons now. It’d started as a tease, you looked like a puffy little thing from Louisiana — the south. But it had turned into a term of affection. A small endearment, just for you.

He sighed, you just were such a cute little fluffy squishy thing. with the perfect womanly curves, your bosom and rear soft and large with wide birthing hips that indicated you had no problem in birthing his kids. Your hair, he snorted, was so bushy and fluffy...like a sheep. He's always groping you, kissing you, biting you and nosing you.

Your breath caught. “Logan—”

“You think you can take my babies and run off like I’m some goddamn neighbor boy who lets his woman throw tantrums?”

His voice was low, lethal. He was stalking toward you like you were prey.

You stood abruptly, chin lifted. “You were rude, Logan! To my mama, to my cousins, to—”

“They’re rude breathing.”

“That don’t give you the right to—!”

He closed the distance. One hand on your waist, the other burying itself in that thick mess of red hair. He gripped a handful, tugged your head back gently but firmly, so he could look into your eyes. His own were wild—blazing with a hundred kinds of madness. Possession. Regret. Obsession.

“You left, squishy,” he whispered, nose brushing against your cheek, your neck. “You left. Took my kids. Took your tiny, fluffy self away from me.”

Your voice trembled. “Maybe you shoulda thought ‘bout that before callin’ my uncle a useless leech—”

“He is a leech.”

“Logan!”

He didn’t argue. He kissed you. Like a man starving. His mouth was hot and rough and desperate against yours. His hands gripped your hips tight, fingers digging in like he needed to memorize the width of them all over again.

“You think I want anyone but you?” he muttered into your skin, voice breaking as he kissed down your jaw, your neck. “You think I give a damn ‘bout anyone else? You’re my woman. You were made for me. That squishy little body was built for me.”

You punched his shoulder. Weakly. “You’re so damn mean.”

He caught your wrist, kissed your knuckles. “To everyone but you.”

He breathed you in like a man at war breathes his last peace. "You make me soft. That's the problem. You're the only softness I got, and I don’t know what to do when you ain’t near."

Tears welled in your eyes again, but now from a different place. He was still the meanest sonofabitch in the world. Still too rough with words. But here he was, crawling through your childhood window like a sinner chasing salvation.