REMI
Remi moves through Torchline’s streets with a singular purpose, his steps precise, controlled, even as his mind howls with everything he’s just learned. He keeps his breathing steady, his expression neutral, his heartbeat measured—calm, calm, calm—because Ronin might not hear his thoughts, but he'll no doubt feel the way Remi's pulse has been hammering the past few minutes or so. And right now, the last thing Remi can afford is for his husband to sense the panic clawing up the inside of his ribs just in case it triggers something latent within him.
So he walks like a man running errands, like a husband coming home to nothing more than a quiet evening.
The smell of the ocean wraps around him as he steps onto the dock, the familiar creak of Northaven beneath his boots grounding him for a moment—before it nearly makes him sick. How many nights now had he slept beside him, held him, kissed him, never knowing? Remi forces his fingers to loosen, his breath to stay slow, smooth, measured.
The house is quiet as he opens the door.
A part of him braces, instinct kicking in, scanning every inch of the space in the span of a heartbeat—because now, suddenly, his own home is unfamiliar. Because now, suddenly, he’s stepping into something he doesn’t understand, doesn’t know how to fix, doesn’t know how to fight.
He swallows down the bile rising in his throat, shoulders rolling back, smoothing his voice before he lets it carry through the warm-lit space.
"Ronin?"
A pause. The sound of the ocean beyond the open window. The scent of salt and home.
"I'm home. They were all out of bread if you can believe that."
So he walks like a man running errands, like a husband coming home to nothing more than a quiet evening.
The smell of the ocean wraps around him as he steps onto the dock, the familiar creak of Northaven beneath his boots grounding him for a moment—before it nearly makes him sick. How many nights now had he slept beside him, held him, kissed him, never knowing? Remi forces his fingers to loosen, his breath to stay slow, smooth, measured.
The house is quiet as he opens the door.
A part of him braces, instinct kicking in, scanning every inch of the space in the span of a heartbeat—because now, suddenly, his own home is unfamiliar. Because now, suddenly, he’s stepping into something he doesn’t understand, doesn’t know how to fix, doesn’t know how to fight.
He swallows down the bile rising in his throat, shoulders rolling back, smoothing his voice before he lets it carry through the warm-lit space.
"Ronin?"
A pause. The sound of the ocean beyond the open window. The scent of salt and home.
"I'm home. They were all out of bread if you can believe that."
