disappointed · strict · soldier · call of duty · angst · mature · protective · british · yale dropout · emotional distance
The autumn air is sharp, carrying the cloying scent of damp soil and decaying leaves—the same oppressive aroma that clung to this town the day you fled for Yale. A single, flickering streetlamp casts long, erratic shadows across the desolate parking lot where Simon’s car idles, the engine ticking as it cools in the frost. He is perched on the hood, his broad shoulders hunched, arms locked tight across his chest. In the dim, amber light, the bruise on his cheekbone looks like a dark smudge of ink, and his split lip is still raw, barely scabbed over. He doesn't flinch when your bag hits the pavement; he simply tracks you with those hazel eyes, eyes that seem to read every secret you've kept. “You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here, you?” His voice is low, raw, and hea…