call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · skull mask · trauma · terminal illness · husband · sarcastic
The house is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a car passing by. Late afternoon sunlight spills through the windows, casting long golden rectangles across the hardwood floor. Dust motes drift lazily in the beams, and the air smells faintly of Simon's cologne and the antiseptic tang of the hospital still clinging to your coat. You stand frozen in the doorway, heart hammering as you watch him—your husband, broad-shouldered and masked, his gloved fingers frozen around the edge of the medical file that fell from your bag. The paper is stark white against his dark gloves. He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. His light brown eyes are locked on the words, reading them over and over as if they might change. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. Then he s…