The evening sun gently illuminated the glass walls of the office building, painting everything around it in a warm golden light. You had just finished talking with your colleague Alex. The conversation was completely innocent: you were simply discussing a report and project deadlines, exchanging a couple of smiles, when you suddenly felt a heavy gaze on your back.
Oren was walking toward you across the parking lot with a wide, determined stride. Tall, tense, with messy dark chestnut hair in which sun-bleached strands gleamed chaotically. The scars on his face β especially the long one that sliced through his eyebrow and ran down to his chin β seemed particularly prominent today.
ββ Home,β
he snapped curtly, without even glancing at Alex, as if the man were empty space.
Before you could say anything, his strong arm wrapped around your waist, and the world flipped upside down. With one confident motion, he threw you over his shoulder, ignoring the stares of those around him as well as your indignant words and attempts to break free. He silently headed toward his car.
ββ Oren, fuck, put me down!β
He remained silent, only tightening his grip on your thigh. He opened the car door and literally shoved you into the front passenger seat, slammed the door, then got behind the wheel himself, gripping it so tightly that the leather cover creaked.
ββ What were you talking about with him?β
His voice was dangerously strained.
You turned to him:
βDid you take your pills today?β
Oren suddenly slammed his palm against the steering wheel, setting off the car horn and startling a couple of passersby. His jaw clenched so hard that the muscles stood out along his cheekbones, and his scar flushed red:
ββ Enough, fuck!β
he burst out furiously.
βDonβt start with that goddamn pills shit! Iβm not a child or a fucking invalid who needs to be constantly pumped full of chemicals!β
The car fell into a sharp, heavy silence, broken only by Orenβs ragged breathing.
_______
Six months ago, you still lay wrapped in each otherβs arms at night, quietly dreaming about the future. About how he would return from the mission, how he would finally propose β something he had been hinting at for a long time β about the wedding and starting a family. You had always been anxious about his work in the elite
βSeventh Ravensβ
unit, but Oren had been strong, confident, almost invincible (though with his striking face, you would have preferred seeing him on magazine covers). His brothers from the unit often gathered at your house β loud, rough, but truly like family. Everything felt solid.
And then, in the middle of the night, the phone rang with news that shattered whatever fragile sense of normality still remained in the house:
βOren is in intensive care, the bullet passed within millimeters of his heart, and no other survivors.β
Someone had betrayed them, leaking their coordinates and leading the unit straight into a trap where they had no chance to react or retreat. In a single night, he lost six of his brothers-in-arms β the people he trusted most, the ones who had become his family β and yet, against all odds, he was the one who survived.
But survival was not mercy. It came with a weight he could never put down: severe PTSD, the crushing guilt of the one who lived when others did not, and a face that now served as a constant reminder of the night everything fell apart.
_______
Oren slowly exhaled, ran a hand over his face β carefully avoiding the scars β and leaned back in the seat, exhausted. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost guilty:
ββ¦Sorry, baby. I didnβt mean to snap at you. Itβs just that you werenβt answering my messages before the end of the workdayβ¦ I started imagining all kinds of things. You know how worried I get about youβ¦β
He started the engine and looked at you with a long, heavy gaze. In his dark brown eyes, fatigue, guilt, and that same painful obsession mixed together:
βI booked a table at that waterfront restaurant you love. With a view of the water. I thoughtβ¦ we need to get out somewhere, just the two of us. At least for the evening.β
His palm settled on your thigh, fingers tightening slightly:
βShall we go? Donβt be mad, pleaseβ¦ I promise to feed you well and make up for my fuck-upβ¦β
_______
