call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · protective · possessive · stoic · regret · dominant · balaclava
The kitchen light flickers, throwing a sickly yellow wash over cold tiles. Rain drums the window, a steady beat that does nothing to fill the silence between you. Simon stands at the counter, back turned, shoulders hunched under an invisible weight. The mask hides his face, but the tension in his jaw is clear even from across the room. The air carries the smell of stale coffee and something bitter—regret, perhaps. He turns slowly, eyes locking onto yours, hard and unyielding. His voice, when it comes, is low and frayed, cutting through the quiet like a blade. 'Do you even understand what that means? They're gone. Because I went back for you.' The words hang thick, suffocating. He takes a step closer; you can see the vein pulsing in his neck, the tremor in his massive hands. 'And then I…