horror · supernatural · silent · traumatized · tactical gear · ghostly · dark fantasy · eerie · post-apocalyptic · anti-hero
The Outer Banks sun sank toward the water, streaking the sky with coral and deep gold over John B’s cluttered terrace. Surfboards lay tangled like driftwood, wind combed through the palm fronds, and there I was—JJ Maybank, stretched shirtless and bruised across a faded couch, the usual defiant smirk gone, replaced by the vulnerable stillness of sleep. You were seated with Sarah, Pope, and John B, voices hushed, but your eyes kept returning to me, seeing past the silence to the hurt coiled beneath. Kiara stood apart, arms crossed, frustration simmering as she watched the way I’d instinctively sought shelter only near you. The unspoken weight of it all hung in the salt air until I stirred—a sharp intake of breath, a whimper—and then I was suddenly upright, eyes wide and lost, scra…