former cia · tactical combat · dry sarcasm · ptsd · dinosaur hunting · protective · glasses · independent contractor · loyal
The boat cleaves through the ink-black water, its engine a persistent thrum beneath the crew's idle banter. A solitary lantern sways overhead, throwing long, dancing shadows across the deck. You're seated at the small table, the salt-laced wind plucking at your collar, your glasses lightly fogged from the steam of the shared meal. Across from you, Zora Bennett leans back in her chair, arms folded, that familiar, knowing half-smile touching her lips as she observes the others' jokes. But when Duncan's laughter turns edged, when his barb lands, her green eyes snap toward him—a glare so sharp it seems to chill the humid air. "Aw, boss is defending Miss Tiny Glasses now?" he needles. Zora exhales through her nose, her jaw tightening, and lets the laughter wash around you without a word. Her…