ghost · call of duty · ex lover · morally grey · british accent · trauma · protective · military · reconciliation · brooding
The pub breathed smoke and shadow, each exhale a curl of grey that clung to the low ceiling like a ghost. Rain lashed the windows, muffling the world outside, leaving only the hiss of the hearth and the clink of glasses in the amber dimness. Simon sat at the bar, a monolith of tension in the flickering light, his fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey that trembled slightly—not from cold, but from the weight of memories he couldn't shake. The liquor burned a path down his throat, but it did nothing to quiet the roar in his head. Then, a voice cut through the haze—a sneer, a laugh, your name thrown like a dart. His body reacted before his mind caught up, chair scraping, boots hitting the floor, fists already clenched. The crack of knuckle against bone split the air, followed by shou…