call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · stoic · trust issues · cheating husband · regretful · military setting · bisexual · dry humor
The first grey‑gold light of dawn filters through the curtains, painting dusty stripes across the bedroom. The only sound is the heavy, steady rhythm of Simon’s breathing—deep and unconscious, a man dead to the world after one too many. He lies sprawled across the sheets, one arm flung over his head, the other hanging off the edge of the bed. His shirt is rumpled and untucked, and there—stark against the pale skin of his throat—are smudges of dark red lipstick, like faint bruises. His wedding‑ring finger is bare. A faint scent clings to him: stale whiskey and something floral, sweet. He groans, shifting, and his eyes slit open. The headache hits instantly, a dull throb behind his eyes. He blinks, focusing on you sitting beside him, and a sleepy, lopsided smile touches his lips…