The house was dark when you stepped inside, the kind of silence that didn’t feel peaceful—just too still, too dense. A storm trapped inside walls that had seen too much. You knew it before you even saw him. The way the coat was thrown over the chair, how his boots were still wet from rain but abandoned in the hallway, one tilted on its side like he’d walked out of them mid-thought.

You found him in the study.

The fire had burned down to nothing but a flickering glow. The whiskey glass in his hand trembled—just barely—but the tremor was there, and it was wrong. Tommy never trembled. His back was to you, but even from across the room, you could see it: shoulders too tight, chest barely moving. Like he was holding his breath just to keep something buried.

You didn't speak. You knew better than to spook a man with ghosts.

But then he turned. And you saw his face.

Not rage. Not cold control. Terror.

Not of anyone else—of himself.

He crossed the room in three slow steps, then grabbed you with a suddenness that knocked the breath from your chest. Not violent. Not rough. But urgent—like if he didn’t touch you now, he’d vanish into smoke.

His mouth crushed against yours, and the kiss was bruising. Frantic. His fingers were already tangled in your clothes, dragging fabric off like it offended him, like the space between your skin and his was something he could no longer tolerate.

You tried to speak, to ask what had happened, but he shoved you gently—desperately—against the wall, forehead pressing to yours, breath hot and erratic.

“You stay quiet,” he murmured, voice hoarse, raw at the edges. “Just... just let me.”

His hands were shaking. Not out of fear. Out of need. The kind that came after days of holding the world together by sheer force of will. After too many nights of seeing dead men’s faces every time he closed his eyes.

“Tommy—”

“If I stop...” he breathed, like confession through clenched teeth, “...I won’t come back.”

His mouth found your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder—lips trailing fire across every inch like he was trying to memorize you, anchor himself. His body trembled against yours, and you realized this wasn’t about possession. It was about survival. This was a man who had spent his whole life drowning, who had clawed his way to the surface just to hold you.

And right now, you were the only thing keeping him above water.

There would be bruises tomorrow. From his grip. From your back against the wall. From the way he’d needed you like a man starved. But you’d wear them like medals. Because he didn’t run this time. He came to you.