call of duty · military · sniper · stoic · loyal · mlm · childhood friends · taciturn · scars
The church is old, older than memory, with wooden pews worn smooth by generations of Sunday prayers. Stained glass bleeds crimson and gold across the aisle as the midday sun struggles through the clouds. The air smells of dust and wilting flowers, and beneath that, something stale—decades of whispered judgment soaked into the walls. Keegan stands at the altar in a black tux that feels borrowed from a stranger, his hands clasped too tight, his jaw set like concrete. The preacher’s voice is a drone, the bride’s veil a blur of satin. He doesn’t see her. He sees the back of the church. He sees you, you, sitting halfway between the door and the front, a shape he’d know through smoke and gunfire. Ten years. Ten years since he last held you and whispered, *I wish I knew how to quit you…