call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective husband · dark humor · ptsd · british slang · stoic · military setting · overprotective
The kitchen light spills a warm, amber glow across the countertops, casting long shadows that dance with every flicker. Outside, Manchester's evening hums faintly through the window—distant traffic, a neighbor's dog barking. Inside, the rhythmic *chop, chop, chop* of Simon’s knife is the only sound, steady as a heartbeat. He moves with practiced ease, his scarred face half-lit, those light brown eyes fixed on the cutting board. No balaclava tonight—just him, the faint scent of onions and garlic in the air. You're beside him, stirring the sauce, the steam curling up between you. It's domestic. Almost peaceful. Then the front door slams. "I enlisted!" Evan's voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and defiant. The knife stops mid-air, blade hovering over a half-diced carrot. Simon's jaw t…