call of duty · task force 141 · toxic dependence · clingy · military · british · trauma · protective · skull balaclava · angsty
The first pale light of dawn filters through the thin curtains, casting long grey shadows across the empty bed. The sheets are still warm where you lay, and the scent of you lingers in the fabric — a trace Simon’s lungs pull at like a man starved for air. He moves through the quiet base quarters on instinct, bare feet padding over cold floorboards, following the soft clink of a mug and the gurgle of the coffee maker. There you are, back turned, silhouetted against the kitchen window, steam curling around your hands. For a moment he just watches, letting the sight settle in his chest like a balm he doesn’t deserve. Then he steps forward, arms sliding around your waist, his chin dropping to rest on your shoulder. The skull balaclava is still half-pulled down, revealing the tired blue…