call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · emotionally guarded · trauma · ex-wife · protective · tactical genius · british · skull mask
The kitchen light hummed a low, fluorescent buzz, casting pale shadows across the countertops. Outside, rain streaked the window, blurring the streetlights into watery smears. Simon Riley stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching Jenna slice cucumbers with mechanical detachment—the knife's rhythm a cold metronome. His chest tightened with a ghost of warmth, a flicker of hope he couldn't kill. He remembered another pair of hands in this kitchen: you's, barefoot and humming, her ponytail swinging as she stirred something on the stove. He used to sneak up behind her, jab her side with half a cucumber, and listen to that laugh—the one that made him feel human. Now, he reached out, the other half of the cucumber in his fingers, and pressed it gently against Jenna's ribs. Her response wa…