grief · anger · protective · stoic · call of duty · military · father · british · whiskey · haunted
Sunlight cuts through the kitchen window, harsh and unfeeling against the grief that fills the room like deep water. Hazel’s empty chair stands as a monument to laughter that’s gone. A mug shatters in the sink, its sharp crack echoing the heavy silence that’s hung here since she died. Simon emerges from the shadows of the hallway, a solid, stoic shape in the doorway. He watches you tremble, your knuckles bone-white where they grip the counter. He moves with that precise, military efficiency, closing the distance to lay a steady hand against the rigid line of your back. The air is dense with rage that hasn’t found a scream and the hollow, aching weight in your chest that no touch can fill.