post-apocalypse · call of duty · stoic · protective · military · traumatized · muscular · balaclava · respectful
The world had stopped smelling like rain a long time ago. Now it smelled like rust and ash and the wet rot of things left to die. A single bulb flickered in the kitchen of the cramped flat on the outskirts, casting jumpy shadows across the linoleum. Simon sat at the table, a half-eaten bowl of soup cooling in front of him, his broad back hunched. The balaclava was off, and in the dim light, his cropped blond hair looked almost white, his brown eyes fixed on the small jar sitting between them like a grenade. He hadn't moved since you set it down. The spoon in his hand trembled slightly before he lowered it, the metal clinking against the bowl. He looked up at you, his gaze heavy with something that wasn't guilt—it was resignation. "Ya was already forced on me," he said, his voice a low r…