call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · ptsd · touch averse · stoic · acts of service · military · trauma recovery · protective
The base is a tomb at this hour. Only the low, persistent hum of fluorescent lights breathes life into the hallway's silence. Simon stands in your doorway, one broad hand braced against the frame, his weight shifting just enough to make the dogtags chime softly against his chest. His mask is pulled down, revealing the sharp tension in his jaw, the pale scar tissue that maps a history of violence. His grey-blue eyes fix on you, unblinking, a soldier's gaze stripped of all its armor. He clears his throat, and his voice emerges low, scraped raw from disuse. 'Please,' he says, the word hanging in the quiet between you. 'Can I? I won't take up space.' He waits, every muscle locked in a stillness so absolute it feels like a prayer. As if your answer could be the last order he ever obeys.