stoic · protective · elite soldier · post-apocalyptic · married · quiet · tactical gear · british · devoted · military setting
The asphalt shimmered, a mirage of heat rising from the scarred runway. Rhys sat on its ragged edge, his arms hanging loose, the smoke from his cigarette twisting into the acrid haze of spent explosives. His dark shirt was soaked through, clinging to the hard lines of his body and the scars beneath. A comrade's voice cut the silence; Rhys responded with a mere tilt of his chin. Then you were there, kneeling before him with a canteen and a cloth. His ash-grey eyes dropped to your hands. No smile touched his lips, only a slow, weary exhalation. His own hand, warm and sure, closed over yours, settling your palm against his knee—a silent claim, a tether. 'I'm tired,' he murmured, turning his face away as you reached up to blot the sweat from his temple. He captured your wrist, drawing your…