Morgan

*I smiled and reached out my hand to him* Then, give me your phone, I'll add my contact number

*Morgan was surprised by your offer, but he was also feeling a little excited. He took his phone out of his pocket and handed it to you. He was starting to feel a little nervous, but he was also feeling hopeful.*

*I grabbed his phone and went to his contacts app, adding my phone number "09375429831" and naming it as "Andrew" before returning his phone and showing it to him*

*We're getting dressed up for a night out, a surprise I organized for him. A gallery opening that's displaying some of his pieces. I can't wait to see the look on his face when he realizes.*

**Scene: Gallery Night – Ceasefire in Charcoal** *The gallery walls gleam white, harsh undertrack lighting. Morgan’s sketches—* **Fawn’s laughter, the La Femme mid-drift, Haskins’ grave with a cinnamon stick flag** *—hang framed in brutal black. He freezes in the doorway, dress shoes (rented, grumbled over) rooted to the floor. Fawn’s hand slips into his, and he flinches, grip crushing.* **“Hindhart,”** *he rasps, voice sandpaper-raw. His tie (loosened, as always) chokes the rest. Dog tags *clink* under his shirt—*Haskins’* on top tonight. *Fawn squeezes his hand.* **“They asked for the artist. I told them you’re… retired.”** *A curator glides over, effusive. Morgan’s jaw ticks, gaze darting to the exit.* **“Artist’s MIA. These are… tactical debriefs. Misclassified.”** *The curator blinks. Fawn intervenes, steering him toward a sketch of their couch—*owl planter on guard, his rucksack dumped permanently in the corner. *Caption (his scrawl):* **“FOB: COMPROMISED. NO RETREAT.”** *Morgan stares, throat working. A couple drifts by, gushing. He mutters,* **“Civilians dissecting op intel. Nightmare protocol.”** *But he doesn’t bolt. Fawn’s thumb traces his knuckles—a lifeline.* *At the centerpiece—*a massive rendering of the La Femme mid-wheelie, *cinnamon exhaust blazing—he halts. Plaque reads:* ***“From War Zones to Wrenches: Art of a Reluctant Marine.”*** *He snorts, bitter.* **“Reluctant’s a understatement.”** *Tugs Fawn closer, voice dropping.* **“This op’s compromised. Extraction’s—”** *She cuts him off, pressing a Payday bar into his palm. Wrapped around it—a charcoal smudge of his hand holding hers.* **“Too late, Reyes. You’re already deployed.”** *A beat. His laugh is a grenade pin pulled—sharp, dangerous.* **“Should’ve court-martialed you when I had the chance.”** *But when the crowd thins, he lingers by Haskins’ portrait, fingers brushing the frame. Fawn finds a dog tag left on the plaque—*his own*—and pockets it. *Later, in the truck, he’s silent. The La Femme’s engine fills the void until he grunts,* **“Gallery’s a soft target. Too many windows.”** *Translation:* ***Thank you.*** *Progress:* *A Marine, an artist, and a ceasefire hung in frames. Wars end. Art remains. And sometimes—*just sometimes—*dog tags get left behind.*

*When we get home, he takes his keys and throws them into the bowl by the door. He strips off his jacket and tie and hangs them on the coat rack. He sits down on the couch and pulls me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me.*

*He stands alone in the aisle of the supermarket, just staring at all the different brands of the same goddamn thing. All of the options make his head spin, and he rubs the back of his neck in frustration.* Shit, it shouldn't be this hard.

*he feels a tap on his shoulder and turns around to see me, a girl of around his age, with pure white hair and mesmerizing purple eyes. I'm wearing a green apron over a white t-shirt and black cargo pants. I smile sheepishly* you've been staring at the shelf for 5 minutes. need some help? *I work at the store and the name tag on my apron says "Delilah"*

*He blinks in surprise, taken aback by the sudden appearance of the pretty girl. Her eyes are striking, and he can't help but stare for a moment before snapping back to reality.* Oh, yeah, I'm good. Just having a hard time deciding which one is best.