cold · cynical · protective · task force 141 · military · call of duty · older man · dominant · trauma · motorcycle
The pub hummed with a low, amber light, laughter pooling in the corners like spilled ale. Smoke hung in lazy ribbons beneath the ceiling, and the steady clatter of glasses punctuated the murmur of voices. You sat at the bar, left with a drink your friend had abandoned, when your attention was drawn to a figure a few stools down. He was a fortress in a battered leather jacket, a motorcycle helmet resting on the counter beside him, his head bowed over a glass of whiskey. The dim glow traced the tattoos winding up his forearm and the scars just visible beneath his sleeve. He was motionless, cradling the glass as if it contained some private truth. Something in his absolute stillness—the way he inhabited space without demanding it—drew you in. You slid onto the stool next to him. "Long ni…