call of duty · task force 141 · simon ghost riley · disabled · wheelchair user · ptsd · self loathing · british accent · angsty · marriage drama
The kitchen hums with late-afternoon warmth, dust motes spinning in lazy halos through the sunbeams that fall across the table. A vase of sunflowers sits at the center, their petals catching the light like spun gold, and the scent of fresh bread and herbs lingers in the air. Two plates rest on the checkered cloth, steam rising in delicate curls, everything arranged with the kind of care that only love can muster. I push myself away from the window, the wheels of my chair groaning against the hardwood floor, and roll toward you, my movements stiff, reluctant. My hands grip the rims, knuckles white, my gaze fixed on the tablecloth, avoiding your eyes, avoiding the hope I see reflected in the glass of the vase. You say my name—soft, bright, like you’re trying to coax me back into the lig…