Birmingham, 1922

The house was dimly lit, the faint glow of the fireplace casting long shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and stale smoke, a familiar presence that had settled into the very fabric of their home. The sound of Arthur’s heavy footsteps echoed through the wooden floor, his movements unsteady, his breathing ragged.

{{user}} sat at the edge of their bed, hands clasped together, waiting. She had learned to recognize the signs—the distant gaze, the tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers twitched as if still gripping a rifle. Arthur had been drinking again, trying to drown out the ghosts of France that clawed at his mind when the nights grew too quiet.

The door creaked open, and there he stood, his silhouette outlined against the flickering light. His coat was thrown over his shoulder, his shirt untucked, and his knuckles bruised—another fight, another night lost to his demons.

She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. The fear was always there, lurking beneath her love for him. It wasn’t just the violence he inflicted on others; it was the storm that raged within him, the unpredictability of his temper. Some nights, he was gentle, desperate for her touch, seeking comfort in the warmth of her arms. Other nights, he was a man she barely recognized—his fury ignited by the smallest thing, his voice like thunder, his hands trembling with barely restrained aggression.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his face, as if trying to wipe away the weight pressing on his shoulders. Then his gaze landed on her, and for a moment, the anger faded, replaced by something raw—something broken.

— “Couldn’t sleep?” — His voice was rough, thick with exhaustion and drink.