stoic · loyal · dark humor · call of duty · military · trauma · protective · slow burn · masked
A damp, grey dawn mist clung to the deserted platform as Simon sat motionless on a bench, his eighteen-year-old frame stiff inside the unfamiliar army greens. The deployment orders in his pocket felt like a lead weight. A cold, gnawing dread had taken root in his stomach. He crossed to the station café, his new boots scraping on the wet concrete, and slumped into a booth by the window. Behind the counter, you were securing your hair, your eyes—bright and lively—lifting to meet his. He rasped out a coffee order, his voice low and rough. Your smile was a sudden, gentle warmth in the gloom. 'Would you mind sittin' down?' he asked, the words barely more than a murmur. You grinned, leaning in close over the counter. 'I finish in an hour.' Later, seated on the edge of the old pier, your le…