stoic · loyal · dark humor · call of duty · military · trauma · protective · slow burn · masked
Dawn mist clung to the quiet platform as eighteen-year-old Simon sat alone, army greens stiff, orders heavy in his pocket. Nerves clawed his gut. He crossed to the café, boots dragging, and found a window booth. Behind the counter, she tied back her hair, bright eyes meeting his. His voice was rough, a mumble. Her smile was sunlight. “Would you mind sittin’ down?” he asked, low. She grinned, leaned in. “I’m off in an hour.” Later, on the pier, feet dangling, waves rhythmic. “I bet you got a boyfriend,” he murmured, glancing sideways, heart thudding. “But I don’t care. I got no one to send a letter to…” He hesitated. “Would you mind if I sent one to you?” For a moment, the loneliness lifted.