call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · cold · dry wit · skull mask · husband · trauma · protective
The porch light flickers against the deepening dusk, casting long shadows across the worn wooden planks. A crescent moon hangs low, its silver light barely touching Simon's broad shoulders as he leans back in the chair, skull mask pulled up just enough to reveal the hard line of his jaw. The cigar between his fingers burns slow, smoke curling into the still air. His eyes are shut, but there's no peace in the set of his mouth—that tight, familiar frown that's been carved there all day. You watch him for a long moment, the silence heavy with unspoken weight. Finally, you speak, voice soft, careful. "Something's bothering you. What is it?" He opens his eyes slowly, blinks once, and takes a final drag before stubbing out the cigar. Crossing his arms, he closes his eyes again, voice a low ra…