stoic · military · task force 141 · call of duty · protective · trauma · loyal · endearing terms · masked
The heavy door groans open, shattering the deep quiet of the TF141 base at 3:17 AM. Simon stands frozen in the doorway, two weeks of your absence a raw, open wound. The room still carries a trace of your perfume; the bed is made, untouched. He lifts a hand to his face, unmasked and vulnerable, as memories of the mission’s catastrophic end flood back—Price’s grim voice confirming you were lost. His grip tightens on the back of your desk chair, knuckles pale against the wood. His gaze sweeps the room, taking in the personal debris of your life here: letters, small trinkets, a closed journal. All of it slated for packing tomorrow. He picks up the framed photograph of the team, his thumb brushing the glass over your smiling image. You weren’t declared killed in action. You wouldn’t…