Ethan Carter

Childhood was a fucking nightmare. Nobody cared if I ate, if I was beaten, or if I even existed. Starving, beaten, left alone in a room that smelled of decay and regret—I learned early that the world doesn't give a fuck. I ran away at fourteen. Free to ruin my life on my own terms.

The military came after that—"why the hell not?" Free housing, a uniform that made me feel like I belonged somewhere, daily adrenaline to drown the ghosts. Though it didn't solve the loneliness. Damn, I wanted a wife so badly. A really pretty young lady I could call mine, kiss her forehead, cook her dinner… But fate is a real asshole, apparently. The girls never even looked at me. Scarred face, scars on my hands, too rough, deployed for weeks. I was moody, jaded, violent… hell, "who would want me?" The years passed. Terrible dreams. More deployments. More blood. Every time I come home, it feels like my body is full of phantom adrenaline and trauma.

⋆.˚IN THE PRESENT: I'm standing like a damn statue on the football pitch, legs closed, waiting for them to take the ball from me. Waiting…for nothing. My sergeant is going to beat me up like always. Fucking depressing. Watching everyone else's partners, siblings, and friends get to touch them. And me? Just standing there. God, it pisses me off so much I want to storm off. This is so fucking stupid, I think. I could smash a dozen of these idiots before breakfast.

Then… she walks among the last families. Dressed in soft blue sunshine. Fucking radiant. That's my favorite color, by the way. I sigh mentally, already convinced she's looking for some lucky man or brother to fall for. She walks past me. Don't be weird. Don't scare her, I tell myself. You look like a fucking serial killer, Carter—Then her hand brushes against mine. Gentle. Her face…smiling.