Battle Scars & Cat Baths

His stubborn woman

The house greets him the second he steps inside. Not in words, not in anything tangible, but in the feel of it, the warmth in the air, the soft hum of a home that isn’t empty. It’s not just a place to live. It’s theirs.

And it smells like her.

Vanilla, warm and rich, clinging to the air, slipping into every corner like it belongs there. Like she belongs there. It gets into his clothes, his sheets, the very foundation of the house. Sometimes, when he’s at work, he swears he still catches traces of it, curling into his lungs like a reminder.

Underneath it, something fresh, the delicate scent of lilacs from the vase on the kitchen counter. Pale purple petals, soft and full, set in a glass vase filled just right. A small, unconscious touch that proves she’s still settling in, still making this place her own.

And then there’s the smell of food. Something warm, buttery, with a whisper of cinnamon. He’d bet money it’s that peach cobbler she wasn’t sure she’d get right. She worries about that kind of thing, about making sure she pulls her weight, even though she doesn’t have to.

He made sure of that.

He works enough, earns enough, that she doesn’t need to do anything but exist here with him. It wasn’t even a question, she’d moved in, and that was it. She could take her time, figure out what she wanted, but the one thing she’d never have to worry about was whether or not they could afford to live.

She stays home because she can. Because he makes sure of it.

And if she ever wanted more, if she ever needed something, she’d have it.

Because that’s how it works when someone is his.

He moves further into the house, expecting to find her in the kitchen, maybe humming under her breath, that little concentrated frown on her face.

Instead, he finds her on the couch.

Asleep.

She’s curled into herself, one arm tucked against her stomach, the other limp at her side. A towel lies crumpled next to her, another half-draped over her legs. Her hair is a mess, damp strands clinging to her cheek where they must have dried that way.

And sprawled out beside her, smug and satisfied, are the culprits.

Her two little demons sleep like the picture of innocence. One is stretched over her stomach, the other nestled in the crook of her arm.

It takes half a second to see the damage.

Scratches litter her arms, thin red lines, some deeper than others. A few trail up to her shoulders, one barely visible along her collarbone. There’s even a faint one on her cheekbone, a whisper of irritation rather than anything serious.

Impossible woman.

His fingers ghost over the worst of them, careful not to wake her. She must have meant to clean them, she wouldn’t have just left them, but exhaustion must have hit before she could.

She shifts slightly, a small hum slipping from her lips. Slowly, her lashes flutter open, still heavy with sleep. “You’re home.”

“I’m home.” His voice is quiet, almost a murmur, as he strokes a thumb over her cheek. “You, however, look like you lost a fight.”

A sleepy smile tugs at her lips, lazy and proud. “I won.”

His gaze flicks to the little beasts beside her before sliding back to her face.

“Sure you did, sweetheart.”

She stretches slightly, then hisses as a scratch pulls. That’s it. Without a word, he scoops her up, ignoring her sleepy protests as he carries her toward the bathroom.

“Wh-wha’re you doing?” she mumbles, clinging to him on instinct.

“Cleaning you up.” His voice is low, edged with something she might be too tired to catch. His grip tightens slightly. “Then we’re gonna have a real serious conversation about you fighting your little hellspawn alone.”

She sighs, long and content, her breath warm against his neck. “You’re warm.”

He huffs, pressing a kiss to her temple as he sets her down on the bathroom counter, reaching for the first-aid kit. “Yeah, well. Somebody’s gotta take care of you, impossible woman.”

And he always, always will.


---

Before all this, before the home and the warmth and the easy way they fell into place together, there was her.

He first saw her in a café. Some random place he almost didn’t go into, just a stop on a busy day. She was off to the side, arms full with a cardboard carrier of drinks, struggling to fish her keys out of her pocket.

And then one of the cups tipped.

He caught it before it hit the ground, his hands wrapping around hers, steady and firm, the heat of the coffee bleeding through the thin material.

She gasped. Soft, startled, breathless.

Then she froze.

Big, wide eyes flicked up to meet his, her lips parting like she wanted to say something, but the words just... stuck.

And f**k, she was shy.

So shy that she didn’t even pull her hands away, just stood there, blinking up at him, completely caught in place.

He couldn’t help himself. “You gonna say thank you, sweetheart? Or just stare at me all day?”

She burned. Face flushed, fingers twitching, breath catching in a way that made something in his chest tighten. “I-...thank you.”

It should have been a nothing moment. Just a brief, passing interaction.

But then she tried to escape.

Tried to duck her head, take her drinks, and rush out the door before he could so much as ask her name. And he, well.

He just wasn’t built to let things slip through his fingers.

“Slow down,” he said, catching the edge of her sleeve. “At least tell me if I get to see you again.”

She hesitated. Nervous. Hesitant.

And then, in the quietest, shyest voice he’d ever heard, “…Maybe.”

That was all he needed.

They started seeing each other after that. First as something light, casual, easy. But it never really was casual. She fit into his life like she was meant to, and he wasn’t about to fight that.

When he asked her to move in, he wasn’t unsure. Wasn’t nervous. He just knew.

He held her close, pressed his lips to her temple, and said, “This house is already yours, you know. You should just come live in it.”

And she, in that sweet, soft way she always did when she was truly happy, just smiled.

And whispered, “Okay.”


---

She hums softly, bringing him back to the present.

Her head lolls slightly as she watches him work, still half-asleep as he dabs at the worst of the scratches. Her arms are lax in his hands, her body utterly pliant, trusting him to take care of her.

He smooths over the last bandage, tracing his thumb along the unmarked skin beside it. “There. All patched up.”

A tiny, pleased noise. Barely more than a breath.

Then, softer, “Thank you.”

His chest pulls tight. A familiar feeling. The same one he felt the first time she ever said it.

He leans in, catching her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up just enough.

And kisses her.

Slow, lingering, warm.

The house smells like vanilla and lilacs. The air is thick with the scent of home. And in his arms, half-asleep, entirely his, she sighs, melts, and leans into him like she always does.

Like she always will.