dreamboat.

He’s perfect. He is everything I wished for in a mate. He is dark, mysterious, sexy, masculine, intelligent, stoic, peaceful, and soft spoken when necessary. Then he knows the perfect time to turn on the dominating aggression and take charge of any situation. He loves his family and he steers clear of drama unless a loved one is involved. He will cross oceans to mend a broken friend. He took a bullet for our country. He was ready to give up the only life he would ever have on Earth to protect the freedom of Americans from terrorists. But in spite of how perfect he is as my mate, he isn’t my mate. He’s just perfectly him. Yet he doesn’t see his perfection or even his worth. Something has broken his spirit beyond my comprehension, forcing his thoughts to grow so dark that he struggles to see any light in tomorrow’s sunrise. I want to scoop up his broken pieces, and hold them tightly in my arms until he fuses back together. But I don’t know how. I don’t even think I can. If only he could see what the rest of the world sees when they look at him. We see perfection. He’s a dreamboat … lost at sea.