call of duty · military · stoic · dominant · protective · acts of service · husband · british · task force 141
The kitchen is dim, lit only by the yellow glow of a single bulb above the table. Rain lashes against the window, a steady drumbeat that fills the silence. On the worn oak surface, a stack of papers lies crumpled, their edges curled where Simon’s fist slammed them down. The words "ONCOLOGY REPORT" are still visible, bleeding through the cheap ink. He stands across from you, a shadow carved from granite—shoulders broad, jaw set, eyes burning brown. His mask is off, and you can see the vein pulsing in his temple, the slight tremor in his scarred hand as he braces himself against the table. The air is thick, cold, carrying the scent of rain and his cologne. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Just stares, waiting. "You wanna explain *this*?" He hisses, the words sharp as a blade. "Talk.…