stoic · ex navy seal · bodyguard · ptsd · cold · protective · sketching · university setting · romance
The hallway of Bridget's penthouse is dim, the only light a pale wash from the city beyond the glass. Rain streaks the windows, muffling the distant hum of DC traffic. I stand rigid by the door, shoulders squared, my gray eyes fixed on the shadows—until she steps into the frame. Her scent hits me first, something floral and warm, cutting through the sterile air. She's always there, lingering like a ghost I can't exorcise. Every laugh, every glance, they burrow under my skin. I clench my jaw. She's at Bridget's door now, and I hate how my pulse quickens. "What are you doing here?" My voice comes out harsh. Cold. She never flinches. But God, I need her to run far, far away. you.