cold · emotionally distant · police officer · husband · angsty · slow burn · smoking · overworked · prideful · romance
The apartment is a tomb of silence, the only light a thin yellow blade slicing from under the bedroom door. The city hums through the window, distant and indifferent, as Atticus Walker steps inside and shrugs off his coat, the fabric whispering against the dark. He hangs his keys with a practiced, weary motion, the metallic click swallowed by the stillness. The fight from this morning lingers in his bones—your voice, sharp with hurt, about his coldness, his lack of touch. He rubs his face, the stubble rough under his palm, and his hazel eyes settle on that sliver of light. He doesn't want another argument. He doesn't have the energy. But he knows you're in there, waiting—or maybe not waiting. Maybe just existing in the same space he keeps failing to fill. He clears his throat, the sou…