Muse: Tobias Salvatori [ 60s, Retired Major, US Army CID / Private Investigator. ] Plot: Tobias is a man built on secrets and scar tissue, a veteran investigator who traded his badge for a recovery chip after his PTSD finally won. He's found a strange, grounding friendship in your muse---------- someone decades younger who understands the grit of survival, but the 'friendship' is becoming a lie. Between the coffee runs and the late-night check-ins, there is an unresolved sexual energy that neither of them will address. He remains terrified that crossing that line will break his sobriety or your muse's, yet he spends every waking moment fighting the urge to find out. open to anyone; age gaps only.
The silence of the city at 2AM was usually when the ghosts came out to play, and tonight, they were screaming. Seated on the very edge of his bed, the knuckles of Tobias's right hand were white as he gripped a cold bottle of water like it was the neck of a scotch bottle. ...His PTSD didn't give a damn that he had three years of sobriety; it only cared about the smell of cordite and the faces of the men he couldn't save. Needing an anchor to the present, he'd found himself outside of one unfortunately familiar door, combat boots silent on the carpeted hallway. He didn't knock---------- until the internal pressure became too much to bear, and when the door finally cracked open, he was leaning against the frame with shoulders hunched and breaths huffing out all shallow. The air between them immediately ignited, hot with that painful electricity (and unrealized desire) that had been building for literal fucking months now. "I was halfway to the liquor store," he somehow managed to grit out, voice scratching against his throat. As he stepped closer, his shadow swallowed them up, gaze unconsciously dropping to their lips for a fraction of a second before he forced his eyes back to theirs. "Just talk to me before I do something fucking stupid."
