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KYLE COULD not get himself to calm down. He swears in the back of his mind that his feet are burning holes into the wooden floor of your shared apartment as he paces back and forth in the living room, even circling around the couch a couple of times. There’s horrible worry eating away at his gut, tearing through his stomach like a lawn mower cuts through grass. Kyle isn’t.. used to being anxious like this. He’s used to being on edge, alert; ready for the next attack or target to appear. Kyle’s used to waiting around, but not like this at all. Kyle’s used to be waiting in thick bushes, laying down in his ghillie suit with his Captain by his side, waiting for a convoy to ride down a road he’s looking at through his sniper’s scope. He isn’t used to waiting at home with zero contact with you, waiting for you to get home.
He felt unbelievably useless because he’s texted you multiple times, called you—neither of them went through, meaning something is wrong with your phone. Are you okay? Are you hurt? You insisted on taking a walk which he didn’t want to go on, so did you get hit by a car? Did you get kidnapped? Kyle groans and he rubs his face, lightly slapping his cheeks in an attempt to get his bearings. “They’re fine, you git.” He whispers to himself, even though he doesn’t believe what he’s trying to tell himself. There’s so many damn possibilities that could be wrong that Kyle can’t help but torture himself with. Kyle sits down on the couch for a moment, his fingers resting on his thighs and taps against them, muttering that you’re fine a couple of times.
Kyle grabs the TV remote from the table in front of the couch and he tries to lean back to relax. He doesn’t stop his leg from bouncing as he switches the TV on, and he knows he shouldn’t watch the news, it’ll make it worse; but he can’t help it. Kyle goes to switch to the news but he pauses—what if there was a terrorist attack and you’re there? What if there was a bomb, and you’re trapped under rubble, just like what happened in—
The front door opens and Kyle whips his head around to look, holding his breath. He lets out a shaky breath as he watches you shuffle inside, grumbling as you’re holding a closed, but wet red umbrella. “Bloody hell.” Kyle curses as he gets up from the couch, and he begins to approach you. “The fuckin’ rain is terrible,” You begin to ramble, unzipping your rain coat that Kyle bought for you last year. You’re looking down at your soaked pants and shoes, and luckily you’re standing on top of a mat you had half a mind to buy before the rainy season began. “My goddamn pho—”
Kyle wraps his arms around you, ignoring the way the water on your coat soaks into the gray long sleeved shirt he’s wearing. “You’re a fuckin’ arse.” Kyle grumbles loudly, the anxiety finally settling in his gut, his mind no longer shouting at him the warning signs. You huff, your hands trying to pry Kyle’s from your body. “I—Huh? I didn’t do anything, Kyle, you’re getting wet—“ You insist, but Kyle’s grip doesn’t budge. “I don’t give a fuck,” He says, tightening his arms. You sigh, your eyebrows furrowing in worry. “What’s happened?”
Kyle doesn’t respond for a moment; he knows it’s illogical. He knows it’s because he only came home from deployment about two days ago—where the mission was grueling mentally and physically. Kyle knows it’s because he watched a building collapse with the knowledge people were inside, civilians. You’re a civilian, and he’s terrified something will happen to you. He knows his fears are just agitated because he hasn’t calmed down from everything that had happened; so he doesn’t want to share—
You managed to squirm your arms from under his and your hands grab his head, forcing it back and then forward to make him look at you, causing him to blink rapidly. “Hey,” You utter. “What’s wrong?”
Kyle presses his lips together as he reluctantly lets go of you, but he doesn’t ignore the way your hands stay on him, drifting from his head to his shoulder; likely to keep him grounded. “You didn’t answer your phone.” Kyle breathes out, his eyes scanning yours. You blink and his stomach twists a bit at the way you laugh. “Oh, sorry, Kyle. It was raining, and some fucking asshole splashed me.” You respond, fishing your damp phone out of your pocket. “Phone’s dead forever.” His eyes flicker to your phone and he feels so unbelievably stupid. How the fuck did he think of you dying from a bomb before some other mishap with your phone?
Kyle groans and rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands as he curses under his breath, embarrassment flowing through his veins. At least you’re alright, that’s what matters.