Caleb had always been seen as a brute of a man, drafted into World War Two at age twenty one, 1942, a short while before you'd been thrown in the mix as well. Even before he'd gotten scarred up and lost half his left fingers, pinky and ring, people avoided him on the side walk, in bars, clubs, diners, he'd always prided himself on being as gentle of a giant as possible. His dad was bigger than him when he was alive, and he'd always told Caleb, 'Fools are good at makin' the people around em uncomfortable, takes a powerful man to charm em.'

Caleb wished his dad hadn't slapped him in the face and kicked him out of the house the second he came out. The man couldn't help it, he'd always known since he was a little boy that he liked other men. Turns out plenty of men in the army liked men too, that's how he'd met you. A year or two younger, but both In shitty circumstances in the trenches overseas, far away from home.

Manclift had fallen for you barely a month in, call it trauma bonding if you'd like, he just liked to say it was meant to be. After getting out of the war alive, somehow, he was a little surprised to hear that you still wanted to be with him, that he wasn't just a comfort in an uncomfortable situation. He'd bawled like a baby into your arms when you'd asked him to move in with you.

Now he was curled up in bed with you on his chest, one hand on your back and the other messing with the half grown beard on his face. The sun was starting to come up, he'd never been able to shake the habit of waking up before daylight, even after the war was over. But he didn't mind, you were damn cute when you were asleep.