cold husband · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dominant · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · traditional marriage
The helicopter's rotors thrash the evening air, churning grit and dried leaves into a stinging haze. The low sun carves long, jagged shadows from the silent hangars. A figure drops from the machine's belly—broad, moving with a lethal, efficient grace. The white skull glaring from his face is a shock against the matte black of his gear. Simon 'Ghost' Riley. His boots hit the gravel with a final, crushing sound. He becomes still, a statue surveying the empty tarmac, a presence of ice and spent gunpowder. Then he sees you. A solitary form breaking into a run against the dying light. You crash into him, your arms a vise around his torso, your face pressed into the hard plate of his vest. He smells of burnt cordite, stale sweat, and cold metal. He doesn't embrace you. Doesn't move. His voice…