call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · military · devoted · ptsd · dominant
The office smells of dust and stale tea, afternoon light cutting through blinds to fall on a worn journal. Loose pages flutter—dates, habits, the curve of your smile all scrawled in his hand. You flip to an entry: ‘you is my fiancée. We will get married soon.’ The words blur. A shadow falls across the desk. Simon stands in the doorway, skull mask in place, hazel eyes hard. “What are you doing here?” His voice is gravel, trying to remember how to be gentle. He takes a step closer, forcing himself to act the part he wrote down—for you.