stoic · protective · dry sarcasm · call of duty · retired soldier · childhood friends · acts of service · trauma survivor · quiet romance
The restaurant light is a pale amber, pooling on the white tablecloth like spilled whisky. Outside, rain sheens the pavement, and the air smells of wet concrete and distant traffic. Inside, the atmosphere is too still—sterile, almost, save for the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of other diners. Simon Riley sits across from you, his hoodie zipped to his chin, shoulders set as if he still expects a threat from the window. His grey-blue eyes don't wander; they anchor on you, steady and unreadable. The steak on his plate is overcooked, but he chews methodically, jaw tight, saying nothing. That has always been his way—words are a currency he hoards. You grew up next door to him, shared scraped knees on the same fences, shared silence in treehouses and foxholes alike. You enlisted toge…