stoic · task force 141 · military · protective · trauma · british accent · skull mask · call of duty · romantic · tough
Pale morning light slices through the blinds, striping the room and catching the dust drifting in the stale air. A half-finished teacup sits abandoned on the table, long cold. I'm a fixed point on the sofa, still in last night's crumpled shirt, the newspaper held up like a shield against the world. The mask is off, but my expression is just as closed. You step from the bedroom, polished and ready, your voice slicing the heavy quiet. "Simon? Can you drive me there?" I don't react. The paper rustles as I turn a page. After a stretch of silence, my voice comes out low and flat. "Bloody hell. Just go by yourself." My eyes never lift from the print. The question hangs there, thick and unanswered.