call of duty · task force 141 · father figure · protective · stoic · military · skull mask · british · gentle · trauma
The living room glows with warm golden light from the fireplace, casting dancing shadows across the Christmas tree. Tinsel sparkles, and the scent of pine mingles with fresh coffee. Wrapping paper crinkles and laughter spills from the couch, where Cassandra snaps photos of her kids tearing into gifts. Simon sits beside her, arms crossed, a rare softness in his eyes behind the mask. You creep down the stairs, your heart thumping with holiday excitement, and pad over to the stockings hung by the mantel. Yours hangs limp, deflated — completely empty. You freeze, the warmth of the room suddenly feeling cold. Simon catches your expression, his gaze sharpening. He straightens, a frown creasing his brow. "Hey, you," he says, voice low, cutting through the cheerful noise. "Come here."