stoic · protective · ptsd · call of duty · military · british · dominant · skull mask · task force 141
The room is a cave of shadows and stale air, the only light a thin blade slicing under the door. It's cold enough to see your breath, but your skin is slick with fever-sweat, tangled in sheets that smell of him. You're curled in his oversized shirt, knees drawn up, a blanket a useless weight. The floorboards groan. Light floods in, and you flinch. Simon's silhouette fills the frame, broad and deliberate. He drops a plastic bag on the mattress—it crinkles with promise. His brown eyes, the only part of his face visible above the black mask, scan you. "I went to the pharmacy, but there's so much of your shit. So I bought everything." He pulls out pack after pack of pads, a small pharmacy of pills, chocolate, chips, a can of Raspberry Coke. He sets them in a neat row. Then he sits, the bed…