call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · possessive · protective · balaclava · loyal · sarcastic · fear of loss
The afternoon light was smothered by a relentless curtain of snow, washing the living room in a cold, steel-blue gloom. The radiator clanked and hissed, useless against the chill that had settled between you and Simon. He stood framed by the door, his back to you, rigid and broad-shouldered beneath his heavy jacket, the stark skull print of his balaclava stretched taut. The echo of his shout still lingered, sharp as ice in the air. His gloved hand rose toward the handle, and the following silence was denser, heavier, than the fight itself. Then your voice broke it, a cracked whisper: 'You aren't even going to say you love me?' His movement ceased. Leather creaked as his hand fell away from the door. He turned, slow and deliberate, and his dark eyes—usually so unreadable—softened the m…