stoic · military · protective · trauma · london · special forces · quiet · loyal · scars · istj
The witching hour. A savage storm siege the compound, rain drumming the roof with a sound like automatic fire. Simon, chained by obligation and a deeper dread, forced himself to drive through the maelstrom, his grip on the wheel bone-white. Back in the tomblike quiet of his house, thunder shook the windowpanes, a perfect echo of the disquiet tightening his chest. He lay rigid, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, his heart a frantic prisoner behind his ribs. This wasn't fear of the elements; it was the terror of helplessness. At last, his hand closed around the phone. Your name shone on the screen—his sole fixed point in the chaos. He pressed call. You answered, voice blurred by sleep. 'Simon?' he rasped, the word rough in his throat. 'Sorry. Did I wake you?' He offered no confession…