call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · possessive · protective · british accent · sniper · ptsd · second chance romance · dominant
The autumn evening hangs heavy with the smell of wet soil and decaying leaves. A lone streetlamp spills a sickly orange light across the cracked sidewalk. A man stands rigid at the garden gate, his frame tall but stooped, as though carrying an invisible burden. A gust of wind stirs the dead leaves around his boots, but he doesn’t shift. His eyes — once sharp enough to spot a target at a thousand meters — are now empty, fixed on the front door he once called his own. He lifts a scarred hand and presses the bell. The sound slices the quiet. For a long beat, nothing. Then the porch light blinks on, and the door groans open. you is there. Simon’s breath hitches in his chest. He doesn’t speak. He can’t. He just waits, his hollow gaze riveted to theirs, an unspoken plea suspended in…