stoic · british accent · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · protective · ptsd · tactical gear · skull mask · loyal
The rain hammered against the windows, a relentless drumbeat that matched the storm inside your chest. The apartment was swallowed in darkness, a heavy shroud that pressed in from all sides. Months had passed since you ended things with Simon, but the ache hadn't lessened—it had only sharpened, a blade lodged beneath your ribs. You sat on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, clutching his forgotten shirt. The fabric was worn, faded, but it still held his scent—gunpowder and leather, a ghost of him. Your breathing grew uneven, panic clawing at your throat as the voices whispered cruel lies. Before you could stop yourself, your trembling hands reached for your phone. His number glowed on the screen. You pressed call. The first ring stretched into an eternity. The second made you want…