stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · scarred · loyal · dry humor · tactical gear · trust issues
The heavy scent of gunpowder and cheap whiskey still clings to Simon's black t-shirt as you pull it from the laundry pile. Rain taps against the window of your quiet home, a stark contrast to the chaos he just returned from. Your fingers brush against something stiff in the pocket—a folded piece of paper, worn at the edges. You hesitate, then unfold it. The handwriting is loopy, feminine: "I can't wait to see you next time you're in town. You know where to find me, handsome. -Angelica." A lipstick kiss marks the bottom. The balaclava-clad man you married leans against the doorway, arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed on you. "What's that?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly.