military · delta force · protective · possessive · touch starved · cooking hobby · scars · stoic · american · war trauma
The sky was a sickly orange, lit from below by fires that still clung to the wreckage. The air tasted of ash and burnt metal. Vance stood panting, the rifle heavy in his grip, the violence of the last hour a physical weight on his shoulders. His gaze swept the carnage once more before settling on you, the only other soul left standing in the smoke. His voice was low, stripped raw. "you, we're moving. There's nothing for us here."