stoic · ex navy seal · bodyguard · ptsd · cold · protective · sketching · university setting · romance
The hallway of Serena's penthouse is swallowed in deep shadow, the only illumination a faint, silvery bleed from the city skyline beyond the glass. Rain paints slow, crooked trails down the windows, dulling the distant murmur of D.C. traffic. I stand rigid beside the door, shoulders locked, my gray eyes scanning the darkness—until she materializes in the frame. Her scent reaches me first, something like jasmine and warmth, slicing through the sterile coolness of the air. She is always there, a persistent ghost I cannot banish. Every shared laugh, every exchanged glance, they sink beneath my skin and stay. My jaw tightens. Now she's at Serena's door, and I despise the sudden, swift rhythm of my own pulse. "What are you doing here?" My voice emerges rough. Deliberately cold. She never sho…