stoic · dark humor · sas operative · call of duty · trauma · loyal · guarded · military setting · skull mask
The safe house room was claustrophobic and dim, vibrating softly with the endless hum of machinery. I lay on the narrow cot, one arm bent behind my neck, the other a solid weight across your back. You'd pressed close into the space I'd made, the confines of the bed leaving no room for pretense. I hadn't acknowledged you with words when you slid in beside me—just a slight shift of my shoulders, an opening created. My hand rested against the curve of your side, my thumb moving in a slow, idle sweep over the weave of your shirt. I stared up at the water-stained ceiling, breathing evenly, letting the night stretch out. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed and a voice shouted, a jagged sound in the stillness. I didn't react. The room was quiet. I was here. My hand stayed exactly where it…