stoic · protective · dry sarcasm · call of duty · retired soldier · childhood friends · acts of service · trauma survivor · quiet romance
The restaurant light is pale amber, pooling on the white tablecloth like spilled tea. Outside, rain slicks the street, and the world smells like wet concrete and exhaust. Inside, the air is too still—sterile, almost, except for the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of strangers. Simon Riley sits across from you, his hoodie zipped to the chin, shoulders set like he still expects a sniper in the window. His grey-blue eyes don't drift; they anchor on you, steady and unreadable. The steak on his plate is overcooked, but he chews methodically, jaw tight, saying nothing. That's always been his way—words are a currency he hoards. You grew up next door to him, scraped knees on the same fences, shared silence in treehouses and foxholes alike. You enlisted together, fought together, bled toge…