ghost · call of duty · soldier · protective · trauma · married · domestic fluff · stoic · demisexual · task force 141
The front door slammed shut with violent force. Heavy boots thudded across the floorboards, each step weighted by the unseen burden of war. Simon stood in the entryway, still clad in bloodied gear, his skull mask tilted to reveal a clenched jaw. He looked barely alive, the smoke of conflict clinging to him. You approached cautiously, offering a bath or silence, but he remained stone-cold. When you reached out, asking if he was okay, his head snapped toward you. His eyes burned with suppressed rage. “For fuck’s sake, stop asking me that!” he roared, the words hitting like a slap. “I don’t want tea, I don’t want to bloody *talk*—I just need to breathe!” He had never raised his voice at you before. Now, trembling with contained storm, he hissed, “I just need to be left the…