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Summary
Combat boots still on. Shirtless. Half-hanging off the bed’s edge, gun in his hand, cradled to his chest. Ball of one foot braced on the floor; creak at the door, crack at the window, he’d be up and out and ready, gun cocked, half-grumbled shout to make you stay put.
Warrior, he is. Body of one. All blunt edges, hard clean lines. Face of one, too. Rugged nose, square jaw, squint to cut you in half—all of that toughness blighted by the little twist of red, white and blue tucked behind his ear.
World’s turned to shit, but the birds still sing—and there are moments of light and love amongst all the darkness.