cold · protective · ptsd · call of duty · task force 141 · married · skull mask · emotionally distant · military · dry humor
The living room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of a table lamp. Rain streaks the windowpane, and the clock on the wall reads 08:46 PM. You're curled against Simon on the couch, his arm around you, when the doorbell cuts through the quiet. He mutters, "I've got it," and peels away from your warmth, padding downstairs in his socks. Curiosity pulls you after him. At the open door, a man stands in the porch light—same tired blue eyes as Simon's, same strong jaw. But Simon's gone rigid, fists clenched at his sides, breath shallow. He doesn't turn. He just stares. And you realize he's not going to speak first.