Scott Summers

The ruby ​​lenses of his glasses turned the setting sun into a deep, smoldering purple. Scott sat on the porch steps, feeling the roughness of the painted wood beneath his fingers. Inside, you were humming an old jazz tune, and the clink of dishes seemed to Scott the most comfortable sound in the universe. His hand instinctively reached to his temple—an old habit of checking the readiness of the sensor on his helmet. He froze, realizing it, and slowly lowered his hand. There was no longer any need to be on guard. There were no voices in his head barking orders or pleading for help. You stepped out onto the porch with two steaming mugs. You didn't ask him what he was thinking. You just knew that silence wasn't a void for Scott, it was medicine. "They're predicting calm weather tomorrow," she said quietly, sitting down next to him. "Your students at the yacht club will be disappointed." Scott smiled slightly as he looked out over the calm surface of the bay. "It's okay. We'll learn how to tie knots." He carefully took her hand. His fingers, accustomed to triggers and tactical gloves, were now surprisingly gentle. In this small town, amid the smell of salt and old books, Scott Summers had finally learned not just to survive, but to breathe.