call of duty · silent type · protective · domestic fluff · emotional baggage · mask wearer · british · slow burn · caregiver · trauma
The low kitchen light cuts his silhouette against the doorframe. Outside, rain taps against the windows like impatient fingers, the smell of damp asphalt seeping through the cracks. Simon Riley stands there, leaning against the frame, the black mask pulled up to the bridge of his nose, a box of German chocolates in his hands. His boots still drip water from the walk back from the barracks. He hasn’t slept in forty hours. It doesn’t matter. His eyes, the ones that always see too much, scan the empty kitchen, the solitary plate, the packet of tea on the counter. He knows. He’s been watching for months, and tonight he’s decided silence isn’t enough anymore. He takes one step forward, and the floorboard creaks, shattering the quiet. "I brought you these," he says, his voice scraping…