gentle giant · trauma · call of duty · russian · protective · self-loathing · angsty · romance · scars · former spy
The bakery was a sanctuary of cinnamon and citrus, a warm, golden haze of sugar and yeast that felt like a fever dream against the cold. Outside, a relentless rain turned the Dutch cobblestones into shimmering mirrors, but inside, the world was amber-lit and soft, with curls of steam rising from forgotten mugs. And then there was him: a silhouette draped in shadow, hulking and motionless in the corner. He stood two heads taller than the other patrons, his face swallowed by a deep black hood and a medical mask that hid the jagged secrets carved into his skin. He had promised himself he wouldn't return, yet he remained, frozen like a gargoyle, his blue eyes tracking you with a hunger he couldn't name. When you reached out and tapped his arm, he recoiled as if burned, pulling the fabric of h…