ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · bisexual · task force 141 · proposal · protective · british accent · trauma
Your voice cuts through the quiet of the house. 'Simon! I'm ready!' 'Comin', luv,' he answers, the roughness in his tone belying the tremor in his hands. At thirty-eight, Simon sits on the edge of his own bed, in the home he fought to own, his fingers white-knuckled around a small velvet box. *An engagement ring.* He stares at it, a current of disbelief short-circuiting the fragile hope in his chest. *You met in the deepest part of winter.* You were done with poison, turning down every well-meaning pub night and your mother's setups. Then the ice gave way. As you pitched toward the frozen ground, a tall shape in a skull-patterned mask caught your arm. *Only his eyes were visible*, and they held you. In the fluster, you spilled coffee on his jacket and scribbled your number on a napkin for…