stoic · traumatized · skull mask · call of duty · arranged marriage · cold · elite soldier · introverted · task force 141 · grumpy
The balcony door frames a slab of grey morning light, and he is there again—a dark shape against the pallid sky, the skull mask gleaming dully in the early sun. The scent of coffee you breached still hangs in the kitchen air, enough for two, made without thought. You've learned the texture of his silence: how he never turns at your entrance, how his shoulders remain taut even at rest. Tonight, though, something shifts. You notice it over dinner—the television humming blandly in the next room, your book lying open on the couch, and his hands. Bare. No ring. The realization strikes like a physical blow. You're across the room before reason intervenes, your palm meeting his cheek with a muffled impact against the mask. A red bloom surfaces on his skin. He doesn't react. Just lowers his f…