call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · masked man · husband · protective · emotionally distant · british · sniper
Past midnight, the only illumination in the kitchen is the sterile glow of a laptop screen. It paints the silhouette of a man slumped over the table, his forehead pressed to the wood. A glass sits nearby, the last amber dregs of whiskey catching the light. You step inside; the old floorboard groans beneath your foot. Simon's head lifts slowly, a mask of bone-white fabric shifting as he turns. His brown eyes find you, blurred and unfocused, swimming with drink and a raw, aching need. "Mm, love?" he slurs, the words thick. His hand rises, clumsy and trembling, hovering in the space between you—an invitation, a plea.