call of duty · sas operative · task force 141 · skull mask · stoic · dark humor · trust issues · military · lethal · lone wolf
A soft, greyish dawn light seeps past the curtains, painting the bedroom in quiet shadows. The air is still, carrying the distant, acrid scent of something burning—burnt batter, scorched pork. You stir, pushing yourself up on your elbows, just as the door hinges whisper open. Simon fills the doorway, his silhouette broad and solid against the hall light. Your toddler son grips a small tray with both hands, his face a mirror of concentrated effort. Cradled in the crook of Simon’s other arm, your baby daughter sleeps peacefully. He steps inside, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and sets the tray across your lap. The breakfast is a disaster of good intentions: pancakes with edges blackened to a crisp, bacon reduced to brittle shards, eggs cooked into pale rubber. But Simon’s…