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His name is "Thrain".
When you wake up in the morning to him cooking something simple yet hardy for breakfast you notice the way his long black hair is pulled into a bun held by a clip. It's nothing fancy just some kind of protein, grain, and some sort of vegetable or fruit depending on the day but it's delicious. You sit at the counter with droopy eyes watching him plate everything up as a single strand falls across his tan face when his bun becomes loose. Neither of you speak but you don't need to it's a comfortable silence that'll break once you're fully awake.
He huffs in amusement through his navy sports face mask when you groan and join him for some basic stretches. You're still not very athletic and it's criminal to be up this early but you join him anyway as he goes on his jog. You circle your block once and he drops you off at home to continue his run. Though your body aches it's not as noticeable as when you first joined him and you certainly sleep better later at night.
On days when the weather is pleasant and not too hot he helps you in the garden. The rose bushes are a bit wild and unkempt unlike the ones at the park but you prefer them this way, natural and thriving. He listens as you ramble on and on, excited about the new variety you got from the convention.
You've got so many already they line the edges of the fence, sit in pots by the steps up to your home, and decorate the table of his study yet still he moves the old planters out of the way to make room for these larger blossoms. He helps you soften the poor soil and amend it with the scraps from the compost pile in the corner of the backyard and let's you plant them as you please. You sit beside him admiring your work and cannot wait for them to show you their lovely burgundy petals.
During the weekend he holds your hand as you walk along the raised edges of the concrete planters and on the old brick fences on the way to the library. Sometimes you wobble when you get distracted thinking about your next read but he holds your hand firm tugging you to focus when you begin to lose your balance to ensure you don't fall. The books he carries in his backpack are heavy but weigh little to a man used to carrying far more weight in more stressful life-threatening situations.
When you reach the end of the planter you hop off it's edge with a hum continuing on your way without a care. At the edge of the brick though you pause debating if you'll jump and he helps you decide turning himself towards you. He catches you by your waist easing you down onto your feet. Your heart pounds after that without fail and if you hum a bit too hard for it to be natural he doesn't comment.
As the seasons change he holds you close to him as you slow dance in front of the fireplace while the storm rages outside. The old house creaks as the wind howls and the rain beats against the windows. The thunder and lightening in the distance startles you but he doesn't falter instead resting your head against his chest as he speaks to you about anything and everything. Coworker gossip, the new flavor of your favorite snack at the grocery store, how the neighbors kids are doing, all of it.
The old battery powered music player and the warm light of the fire do not waver as the power shuts off. When the temperature begins to drop and your eyes begin to shut he carries you in his arms to the couch and wraps the thick blankets around you both. You find peace in the rumble of his voice and the beat of his heart and sleep throughout the night.
Before bed you help him with his scars. The ones he earned while protecting lives, while fighting for his own, and from when he was young and more reckless. He's not ashamed of the scars that liter his body but for a man as large and intimidating as him he seems small when it comes to the recent ones on his face. It's not pretty, the damage caused by a close call that sliced deep into his left cheek and the other lightly diagonally across from his right brow and nose. Surgery helped put him back together but he can't smile like he used to the skin still stiff even after months of healing and therapy.
You're careful as you massage his face like he and the therapist taught you to between the sessions you had to wait for the insurance to approve. He grunts under your touch and you can feel how much more pliable his skin has become since his first sessions. His muscles relax as you apply the gel and sheet as instructed across his cheek. When you’re finished he holds your hands with his own against his cheeks closing his eyes. He didn't smile much in the first place but still seeing the gentle upward tilt of the right of his lips brings a smile to your own.
"Thrain" calls your name softly and in a blink you’re no longer holding his face while he sits on the closed lid of the toilet. You don’t see his sharp dark blue eyes or feel his warm tan skin or see his sweatshirt and pants. Instead you see the dark void of his helmet, the golden chains of his black coat. "Capitano" calls your name again and your world tilts as the void expands and everything around you distorts. You feel like you’re falling.
Your descend stops abruptly caught by something or rather someone.
“Oh, dear.” You feel gloved hands wipe your eyes and you look up to their owner. His eyes are sharp but red, his skin a pale peach, and his hair a light blue. His smile is gentle but mocking.
“Did you have a nightmare?”