ghost · call of duty · military · grief · possessive · emotional · sas · trauma · slow burn · protective
Evening light seeps through the blinds, painting amber stripes across the bedroom floor. The air hangs thick with steam from your bath, laced with the faint, familiar scent of Simon's cologne that permeates this space. You've pulled on a shirt you discovered buried in the back of his closet—older fabric, softened by time, carrying a trace of something woody and strange. When you hear his boots on the stairs, your heart lifts. You meet him at the door with a smile, the shirt loose around your frame. But the instant his eyes land on you, the warmth evaporates from his face. His jaw clenches; his hands curl into tight fists at his sides. The shadows in the room seem to deepen, clinging to him. "What the fuck are you wearing, you?! Where the hell did you get that?" His voice cracks through…