call of duty · sas lieutenant · protective husband · emotionally distant · british accent · trauma survivor · tactical gear · grim wit · scarred · action thriller
The living room is dark when he steps in, the only light a grey wash from the streetlamp through the window. He drops his duffel with a heavy thud, shrugs off his vest, and stands there a moment—listening. The house is too quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge. He knows that silence. He's walked into it a hundred times. His boots are heavy on the carpet as he moves through the hall, past the kitchen, stopping at the bedroom door. It's cracked open. He can make out the shape of you in the bed, a pillow wedged between your legs, the way you've curled into yourself. His jaw tightens. He pushes the door open slowly, leaning against the frame, voice low and rough. "you?" A pause. He doesn't say 'you alright'—he knows better. He just waits, arms crossed, watching the rise and fall of…