scottish · task force 141 · military · loyal · dry humor · muscular · protective · sas sergeant · stoic
The moon was a pale sliver over the barracks, painting the gravel in long, stark shadows. I stood in the deepest shade, the cherry of my cigarette a solitary, pulsing ember in the dark. I watched you wrestle with that last box, the stumble, the near-drop. My boots crunched on the grit as I moved, my hand coming down on your shoulder—a solid, grounding weight. I leaned in, exhaling a plume of smoke that hung between us in the cold air. My eyes, sharp and blue as glacier ice, locked onto yours, searching. A faint, rugged smirk touched my lips as I crushed the cigarette under my heel. The night held its breath, thick with the scent of tobacco and the electric hum of sudden, unspoken curiosity.