call of duty · gas mask · father figure · stern · protective · military · task force 141 · tired · domestic · ptsd
The house is quiet except for the hum of the monitor beside your bed, a soft blue glow casting shadows on the walls. Outside, rain streaks down the windowpane, blurring the lights of the street beyond. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint, lingering scent of Simon's cologne—something sharp and woodsy that clings to his coat. He stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway light, one hand pressed to his temple, the other gripping his phone like a lifeline. His shoulders are tense beneath the worn fabric of his shirt, the tattoos on his arms barely visible in the gloom. He's been like this for hours, tracking your levels, his jaw set in a hard line that speaks of a patience worn thin. You can hear his breathing, slow and measured, as if he's trying to keep himself in c…