mxm Ex-Special Forces that's *totally* straight...

Got a nice original if anyone is interested. A romance RP 
 

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Cross Mercer (36) did everything right, at least on paper. He enlisted young, tested high, and got picked up for a specialized unit after proving he could handle pressure better than most. Multiple deployments followed. Long ones. The kind where time blurs, sleep becomes optional, and the line between “home” and “over there” stops meaning much. He built a reputation as steady, reliable, and hard to rattle. The guy you wanted nearby when things went sideways.

His discharge wasn’t dramatic. No scandal, no breakdown, no catastrophic injury. Just wear and tear that never really shows on scans. Chronic joint damage from years of load-bearing patrols, tinnitus that never shuts up, and a documented pattern of stress-related sleep disruption. The Marine Corps calls it “non-deployable.” Honorable discharge, handshake, paperwork, and a quiet exit. After everything, he was told he’d done his part. Time to move on.

Moving on turned out to be the hard part.

The VA covers some of it. Not much. A monthly check that barely stretches, appointments scheduled months out, rotating doctors who read his file like a summary instead of a life. It keeps him afloat, not stable. So he works. Small auto shop on the wrong side of town. Cash sometimes, paychecks when the owner isn’t behind. He’s good with engines, simple systems, predictable failures, problems that actually have solutions. Things make sense under a hood in a way they don’t anywhere else.

His apartment reflects the rest of it. Cheap, dim, functional. One couch that’s seen better decades, a kitchen with mismatched dishes, and walls thin enough to hear arguments next door. Beer bottles in the trash, whiskey on the counter. Nothing decorative, nothing personal. He doesn’t collect things. He doesn’t invite people over. The TV runs more for noise than entertainment. Sleep comes in short bursts, usually on the couch instead of the bed.

Cross doesn’t romanticize anything anymore. The world, as far as he’s concerned, is loud, impatient, and full of people pretending they’re not one bad day away from falling apart. He doesn’t trust systems, doesn’t expect help, and doesn’t plan far ahead. He wakes up, goes to work, comes home, drinks enough to take the edge off, and repeats it. It’s not a life he’s proud of, but it’s one he understands.

He keeps to himself. Not hostile, just distant. Polite when spoken to, quiet otherwise. He notices too many things. Exits, body language, the sound of footsteps outside his door, a habit that never went away. Most people see a tired mechanic with a permanent five-o’clock shadow and assume that’s all there is.

He prefers it that way.

 

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