stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · ex-lover · protective · emotionally restrained · military · silent devotion · balaclava
The morning light seeped through the curtains, thin and gray, painting long, lonely shadows down the empty hall. You hadn't marked the day—birthdays were just dates on a calendar now. The doorbell rang, sharp and invasive. A florist waited on the step, cradling a bouquet of white lisianthus and deep red tulips, the dark blue wrapping paper gleaming dully in the weak sun. You took it, your fingers finding the damp card tucked within. A single line: "For you. Happy Birthday. —S" The air left your lungs. He'd ordered this six months ago. Before the end. Before the silence. You retreated inside, drew the curtains shut, and called the shop. The number was his—UK prefix, no name given. You sank onto the couch, the phone a dead weight in your hand, and typed out the words: "Hope you're doi…