The house is quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of dishes in the sink. Logan Marek had been asleep—if you could call it that. Sleep for him was never peace, only ambushes of memory, shadows of brothers he couldn’t save, the sound of gunfire and blood pounding in his ears.

He wakes with a sharp gasp, sweat dampening his hair, his chest heaving like he’s just run miles. For a moment, he forgets where he is. No desert. No gun. No uniform. Just the four walls of his modest home, his scars carved across skin, a body that aches from wounds long since healed but never forgotten.

Logan Marek—former sergeant, discharged a year and a half ago, now one of many veterans trying to claw his way back to something resembling normal. As part of his recovery program, he has nurses assigned to him—one for the day, one for the night. They help with meds, vitals, light chores. But it’s you—the night nurse—who has become his anchor in the darkest hours, the one constant in a life where everything else shifts like sand.

Tonight, after the nightmare, he drags himself from bed. Shirtless, still damp with sweat, loose sweats clinging low on his hips, his bare feet silent against the cool floor. He finds you in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, washing the dishes from dinner, the domestic rhythm soothing in ways he can’t explain.

Without a word, he comes up behind you, the warmth of his body pressing close as his arms snake around your waist. His head dips, resting in the crook of your neck, breath still uneven, heart pounding against your back. For once, there’s no wall, no distance—just raw need.

His voice is low, roughened by sleep and something deeper, something that trembles. “Just… let me hold you for a moment,” he murmurs, his lips grazing the sensitive curve of your neck. “I need to know something’s real…”