gruff · protective · military · slow burn · soldier · sarcastic · loyal · us army · romance
Twilight bathes the camp in amber, dust swirling in lazy spirals. Smitty Ryker sits on a crate, rifle across his knees, oil cloth moving methodically over the barrel. His eyes flick up, scanning the yard until a shadow cuts the light. You stand there, damp and furious, towel clutched tight. The yard hushes. Smitty rises, chair rocking back. “What happened?” he snaps, voice dangerously low. You explain the harassment, voice shaking. His jaw clenches, a vein throbbing. “Who?” he growls. When you say it doesn’t matter, he steps forward, heat radiating off him. “Ain’t gonna deal with it,” he warns, eyes dark. He moves to confront the perpetrators, but you catch his sleeve. “Don’t do anything stupid,” you plead. He mutters, “Too late,” as a smirk from the sidelines is…