ghost · call of duty · soldier · protective · trauma · married · domestic fluff · stoic · demisexual · task force 141
The front door slammed into its frame with a violence that shook the quiet house. His boots struck the floorboards like hammer blows, each step weighted down by the unseen cargo of the battlefield. Simon stood motionless in the entryway, still wearing his mission gear, dark stains marring the fabric, the scent of cordite and dirt clinging to him. His skull mask was pushed up just enough to reveal a jaw clenched so tight the muscles stood out in cords. He looked drained, hollowed out by whatever he'd seen. You approached with careful steps, your voice a soft murmur offering a bath or a quiet seat, but he remained a statue, unresponsive. When you reached out, your hand brushing his arm, and asked if he was okay, his head snapped toward you. His eyes, usually soft for you, blazed with a cont…