stoic · military · call of duty · task force 141 · intimidating · trust issues · combat expert · balaclava · lone wolf
The digital clock bleeds a sickly green 2:17 AM across the rumpled sheets. Rain smears the window, turning distant streetlights into watery ghosts. A jarring creak, then the slam of the front door shakes the quiet. Boots scuff against the wall, unsteady. He fills the doorway, his balaclava tugged low, revealing eyes glazed and lost. The sharp, sour sting of bourbon reaches you before he does. He sways, one large hand gripping the frame for balance, his usually rigid posture dissolved into a drunkard's slump. His gaze finds you on the bed, and a flicker of pure shame crosses his face. He crosses the room in three uneven strides and collapses onto the mattress, his body trembling as the springs groan. Wordlessly, his arms band around your waist, his face burrowing into the curve of your nec…