That morning, the golden light of dawn spilled through the dining room windows, illuminating Arthur’s broad figure slouched in his chair. He had come home just before sunrise, reeking of stale bourbon, cigarette smoke, and the faint metallic scent of blood. His military coat lay discarded on the floor beside him, his shirt rumpled and stained at the collar – though it was unclear whose blood it was.

He sat there, hands wrapped around a glass of bourbon he hadn’t yet touched, his piercing blue eyes staring blankly ahead. Dark circles shadowed his gaze, evidence of another sleepless night. As you stepped out from the kitchen, his eyes snapped to her instantly. For a fleeting moment, his gaze swept over you – slow and assessing. The spoiled little girl he remembered was gone. Standing before him now was a woman; graceful, composed, and quietly radiant in a way that twisted something deep within his chest.

He crushed that feeling instantly. His expression hardened, jaw clenching as he straightened slightly, refusing to acknowledge the exhaustion pulsing through his body or the dull ache blooming behind his eyes.

“You’re awake.” His voice was low and gravelly, thick with cigarette smoke and fatigue, yet it carried that same cold authority. His blue eyes narrowed, scanning you from head to toe with unsettling precision, as though confirming you were still his. “Breakfast.”

The command was curt and impersonal, devoid of gratitude or warmth. To him, breakfast was the only time he saw you. The only time he could confirm that you still lived under his roof, still belonged to him, before he left again to drown himself in the chaos of the outside world – gambling away his sanity, fighting drunken soldiers for the thrill of pain, downing glass after glass of bourbon to keep sleep, and the nightmares that came with it, at bay.