#solider

A sharp thud from somewhere downstairs.

You wake slowly, disoriented, thinking it’s part of a dream.

Then you feel it.

The space beside you is empty.

The bedroom door is cracked open. The hallway light is on.

Your stomach drops.

You sit up just as you hear a drawer slide open quickly — metal shifting against metal.

Your heart begins to pound.

“Billie?” you call softly.

No answer.

Then you see her.

She’s standing near the bedroom doorway, shoulders rigid, chest rising too fast. There’s sweat on her temples, hair sticking to her skin. Her eyes aren’t fully here — they’re scanning, calculating, distant in a way that makes your chest tighten.

In her hand is the gun she keeps locked away.

Not pointed at anything. Just gripped tightly, knuckles pale.

“Billie,” you say again, this time more firmly.

She doesn’t look at you.

“There’s someone in the house,” she says under her breath. Her voice is low, controlled — but you can hear the tremor beneath it.

Your pulse races.

There hasn’t been another sound.

“Babe,” you whisper carefully, sliding off the bed, moving slowly so you don’t startle her. “It was probably the heater. Or the house settling.”

Her jaw tightens.

“No,” she mutters. “I heard it.”

She steps into the hallway, body tense, every muscle coiled. The version of her you see right now isn’t your soft, teasing girlfriend. It’s the soldier. The one trained to expect danger. The one who learned that hesitation could cost everything.

You follow, heart hammering.

“Billie, please.”

She moves through the house quickly, checking doors, checking windows. Every shadow seems to make her flinch. Every tiny creak pulls her attention.

You’ve seen this before.

The nightmares.

The way she wakes up drenched in sweat.

But this is different. This is her mind dragging the war into your living room.

She reaches the front door, hand shaking slightly as she checks the lock.

It’s secure.

Everything is secure.

The house is silent.

Her breathing doesn’t slow.

She turns sharply at a small noise — just the fridge kicking on — and you see it in her eyes.

Fear.

Real, raw fear.

“Billie,” you say gently, stepping closer.

She finally looks at you.

And you can see it hit her.

The realization.

She’s home.

There’s no mission. No threat. No one coming through the door.

Her shoulders sag just slightly.

“I thought—” Her voice cracks, and she swallows hard. “I thought I heard someone.”

“I know,” you say softly.

You move closer, carefully reaching for her wrist — not the gun, just her wrist. Your touch is warm, steady.

“It’s okay. We’re safe.”

Her grip loosens a little.

She looks down at her hand like she doesn’t remember picking it up in the first place.

“I didn’t even think,” she whispers. There’s shame in her voice now. “I just reacted.”

You shake your head immediately.

“You don’t have to be ashamed.”

She exhales shakily, running her free hand through her hair. Her tough exterior is cracking now.

“I can’t turn it off,” she admits quietly. “Even when I know I should be fine… I just— I feel like something’s about to happen.”

Your chest aches.

You gently guide her to sit down on the couch. After a moment, she sets the gun safely on the coffee table, pushing it away like she doesn’t want to look at it.

Her hands are trembling now that the adrenaline is fading.

You kneel in front of her, taking both of her hands in yours.

“Look at me,” you whisper.

She does.

Her eyes are glossy, overwhelmed.

“You’re here,” you say softly. “In our house. With me. There’s no one else. Just us.”

Her breathing stutters.

“I hate that you have to see me like this.”

“I don’t,” you say immediately. “I want to. I want all of you. Even this.”

Her composure finally breaks.

She pulls you into her arms suddenly, burying her face in your shoulder. Her body shakes — not from aggression, not from strength — but from exhaustion.

“I’m supposed to protect you,” she murmurs, voice unsteady.

“You do,” you reply, wrapping your arms tightly around her. “But you don’t have to be on guard every second. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her grip tightens like she’s afraid you might disappear if she lets go.

After a long moment, her breathing starts to slow. The house remains quiet. Peaceful.

Real.

“I’m scared sometimes,” she admits softly into your shoulder.

You stroke your fingers through her hair.

“I know,” you whisper. “And I’m right here.”

She pulls back slightly, looking at you with something vulnerable and open — a version of her only you get to see.

“You make it feel… safe,” she says.

You press your forehead to hers.

“You are safe.”

And this time, when you guide her back to bed, she doesn’t resist.

She keeps one arm wrapped around you all night — not because she’s guarding the house.

All that work. All thst effort. The time put into this life.

Pratically stripped away. By someone who didn't deserve the crown. By some... some rage filled man. Who's child had ran away for his own sake, his own sanity.

Longhorn saw the clear picture. He saw why the boy ran now. His fathers insults, words, rhey now fired at the knight. The knight who'd served so many and only uttered the words, ❝I could not find the prince.❞ a lie, but one he knew mostly everyone would take as truth. If he couldn't find someone, no one could. And maybe that scared the king.

He had escaped just barely, his armor protected him from damages, besides a small cut on his neck where he was exposed. None the less he did not faltered. Just rode bsck to the cabin, taking his time and avoiding paths to alert where he had gone...