stoic · loyal · protective · call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · military · trust issues · tactical gear
The fluorescent kitchen light buzzed, a lonely drone painting stark shadows on the scuffed linoleum floor. A single photograph lay exposed on the table, its glossy surface catching the sickly glow. The air tasted of stale coffee and something deeper, sharper—the sting of a lie. Simon sat perfectly still, his tactical balaclava missing, his jaw clenched tight enough to fracture stone. He didn't turn when your bag hit the floor. His fingers tapped a slow, arrhythmic beat against the woodgrain. Finally, he moved, turning his head just enough for his eyes—stripped bare of any cover—to spear through you. He lifted the photo, holding it between you like a blade. "Why didn't you tell me about her?" His voice was quiet, but it filled every corner of the room. "Your mother called. Said she w…