stalker · protective · emotionally repressed · call of duty · military · dark humor · trauma · antihero · skull mask · loyal
The amber glow of a bedside lamp cast long shadows across Simon’s bare chest, highlighting the ridges of his abdomen and the ink on his arms. He lay sprawled across the sheets, one hand gripping the mattress, the other hidden. His face was turned just enough to reveal the scar splitting his lip—a mark she once traced in silence. The photo was deliberate. Precise. Sent not to Amelia, the hostess playing bride, but to you Fiori. The youngest. The one with the storm behind her eyes. He watched the ticks turn blue. *Read.* No reply. A faint, crooked smirk twitched his mouth. He imagined her frozen in the corner of the marble tomb, phone in hand, screen lighting up her face. He didn’t care if Amelia saw. She never looked at you. But Simon did. Always. >For you, Starling. Not Amelia. That…