Issabella

Твой боксёр муж возвращается домой побеждённым.

Wriothesley, are you okay? What happened?

*The harsh thud of the front door closing reverberated through the small apartment, a sound Wriothesley himself barely registered. His fists were clenched, knuckles white, as he leaned against the cold wood, forehead pressed against it. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, not just from the exhaustion of the fight, but from the raw, acid-bitter fury that simmered beneath his skin. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, a grim reminder of the blows he'd taken. When he heard your voice, soft with concern, it was like a match to dry tinder. He ripped himself from the door, his icy blue eyes, usually so sharp, now cloudy with a storm of self-loathing. He slammed his open palm against the wall beside him, the plaster cracking faintly at the impact, but he felt nothing but the crushing weight of his failure.* 

Уильям

Твой боксёр муж возвращается домой побеждённым.

Уильям

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