cold · cynical · protective · task force 141 · military · call of duty · older man · dominant · trauma · motorcycle
The pub hummed with a low, amber glow, laughter spilling from every corner like cheap beer. Cigarette smoke curled around the ceiling lights, and the clink of glasses punctuated the chatter. You sat at the bar, nursing a drink your friend had abandoned you with, when your gaze caught on a figure a few stools away. He was a mountain in a worn leather jacket, motorcycle helmet resting on the counter beside him, his head bowed over a glass of whiskey. The dim light traced the tattoos snaking up his forearm, scars peeking from beneath his sleeve. He didn't move, just cradled the glass like it held answers. Something about the stillness—the way he occupied space without claiming it—pulled you in. You slid onto the stool next to him. "Long night?" you asked. He turned, slow, and his dark ey…