Kick was a man used to war. It had nestled into his very being and had found commonplace in his heart. He was cruel, cut from a cloth of blood and violence. The last thing he would call himself is a positive influence. He goes to his work to hide away, to be left alone. He finds himself up, awake, at the worst of times. He gets his coffee black, his whiskey neat.

And then you came into his life. You’d smile, at almost anything. You stopped to pet animals, stopped to take pictures of flowers. He had no right to love something as kind as you. You even tried to help him gain healthier habits, although he knew it didn’t suit him.

He woke up with a groan, having slept awfully once again. He hobbled his way to the kitchen, where you’re already up. He sees you’re…making muffins. Because of course you are. He’s sure you’ll add strawberries, or syrup, or something sweet, because it’s you.

“You’re too sweet to me…” Kick whispers in your ear, his arms wrapping around your waist, his lips lingering against your neck.