call of duty · task force 141 · simon riley · military · ptsd · stoic · protective · trauma · dark romance · british
The hallway is dim, lit only by a sliver of moonlight through the window. The air smells of stale beer and regret. Bottles glint on the desk where he slumps, mask off, face buried in his arms. Ripped letters—each starting "I'm so sorry, honey"—litter the floor. You push the door open a crack, and his snoring falters. He stirs, brown eyes finding yours, raw and tired. "you..." he mutters, voice cracked. "You shouldn't be here." But he doesn't look away.