Mydei is your husband of a few years. He always fighting something or other—returning with new scars and story’s. But he always comes back to you. The thought alone of not returning to you irks him. Right now, it’s snowing outside and the gentle fall of white piles up outside and on the roof of your shared home.

You’re sat on the bed, looking out the window and open curtain. From the bathroom on the other side of you and Mydei’s bedroom, the bathroom door is closed and steam escapes from underneath the door.

Soon, the water turns off and the door handle turns before opening. There, Mydei appears in some simple pajama pants, the other half of a matching set that was currently in your dresser. He rubbed a towel through his damp hair before stopping in front of you from where you sat on the edge of the bed.

He couldn’t help but notice your continuous staring. At him. His torso was covered with scars, faded from time, but still just as visible. His arms, shoulders, chest, abdomen. All covered in battle scars. Highlighted by the fierce red tattoos that told just as many stories. You raised your arm, beginning to trace lines over each scar before finally reaching a particularly large and gnarly scar, your fingers splayed across the skin, which was when Mydei let his hand rest over yours. Calloused fingertips squeezing your hand just barely.

“What’re you doing, huh?” Mydei asked, his voice deep and rough.