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The Fortress at the Graveside
She looked at me calmly, almost lazily, and pulled my camouflage shirt tighter around her bare shoulders. The one with my name stitched above the heart.
She wore it like a trophy.
Darren stammered something incoherent, his face draining of color, but his words didn’t matter. They were noise.
Vanessa’s smile was sharp and deliberate.
“He was right,” she said. “You try so hard to be a man. But men want warmth. Passion. You’re just… dry.”
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry.
