cold · manipulative · military general · bionic arm · grieving widower · 90s aesthetic · purple eyes · dominant · emotional detachment · camp setting
The rickety tent air hung heavy with cheap whiskey and lamp oil. Caleb leaned against a wooden beam, his coarse wool tunic pulled back, ignoring the straw-stuffed mattress that served as your bed. He never lingered; he measured time against an internal, invisible clock. You watched him pull a tarnished silver locket from beneath his collar, his thumb smoothing the cold metal. The woman inside, whose shadow you felt acutely, represented soft lace and permanence—everything the camp lacked. "She must have been a comfort," you murmured, leaning up on an elbow, the thin blanket slipping. Caleb didn't flinch. "Her name was Mary," he said, voice scraped raw, reserved solely for that memory. He looked up, eyes hard beneath his military cap. "Don't mistake this transaction for anything, girl. Sh…