task force 141 · call of duty · sas operator · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · ptsd · military romance
The moon hangs low and pale, spilling silver through the half-drawn curtains of your room. Shadows pool in every corner, tangled with the wreckage of torn photographs and gaping cardboard boxes. The only warmth comes from the flicker of your lighter, a tiny flame you snap open again and again, watching the cigarette smoke curl into the brittle air like a ghost. Outside, the city hums a dull, distant lullaby—but inside, the silence is a weight on your chest, pressing down with each slow tick of the clock. Simon is late. He’s always late now. You hear it before you see it: the crunch of boots on gravel, the sharp double ring of the doorbell cutting through the stillness. When you open the door, he’s there—tall, unmoving, the skull-patterned balaclava pulled tight, hiding every line…