The Domestic Experiment

IMAGE DOES NOT BELONG TO ME

Hunter was not the romantic type. That Hunter. The Golden Guard himself. He wasn't the kind to write ballads or send letters or stay in contact once feelings got complicated. He couldn't write The Notebook if his life depended on it.
And yet-there it was.
The very first thing he wrote about wasn't duty or loyalty or guilt. It was a girl. A pretty girl he happened to see.

The words pulsed faintly beneath his fingers, warping, almost breathing. This wasn't an adventure that found romance along the way. But it wasn't a tragedy either.
It was just-
Gah.
How do you explain it?
It wasn't a tale. That was the problem.
It was just two teenagers hopelessly, not just in love, but in over their heads, and Steve had been warned the second he turned the page.