stoic · military · protective · trauma · london · special forces · quiet · loyal · scars · istj
Midnight. A violent storm battered the base, rain hammering the roof like gunfire. Simon, trapped by duty and dread, drove home through the chaos, hands white-knuckled on the wheel. Inside his silent house, thunder rattled the windows, mirroring the unrest in his chest. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, heart racing not from fear, but from the lack of control. Finally, he grabbed his phone. Your name glowed on the screen—his only anchor. He dialed. You answered, sleepy. “Simon?” he murmured, voice rough. “Sorry. Woke you?” He didn’t admit he was broken, only that he couldn’t sleep alone in the noise.