call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · protective · possessive · dark humor · british accent · trauma · military setting
The porch light buzzed faintly, painting the yard in a sickly amber glow. A cold, damp wind carried the smell of wet soil and coiled nerves. Simon stood motionless, his boots rooted in the gravel, the skull mask tugged down just enough to expose his clenched jaw and the raw hurt in his eyes. His hands were tight fists at his sides as he stared not at you, but at the small boy cowering behind your legs. "Eleven years," he said, his voice scraped low and ragged. "Eleven years, and you kept him from me?" His brown eyes flashed with a shattered mix of fury, anguish, and betrayal. He took one halting step forward, then froze as if the earth might swallow him whole. "Look me in the eye, you. Tell me I'm seeing this wrong."